


Memory

by DanaWPatterson



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanaWPatterson/pseuds/DanaWPatterson
Summary: Panic overtook her and she had to will herself to breathe normally. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. She was clearly injured. More terrifying, though, she couldn’t remember who she was.





	1. Rebecca Johnson

**Author's Note:**

> It's another giant, ongoing, never-ending fic from me. I know. I know. This one hit me today and I wrote chapter one quickly and easily. Since it looks like we still have some time before season 5, here I am, writing my own season again.
> 
> Your likes and kudos give me life. Follow me on Twitter @danawpatterson if you want to harass me into writing faster.

Everything hurt. It felt like she’d been hit by a bus, not that she actually remembered being hit by a bus. Her face was sticky and dirty, and as she tried to raise a hand to brush away the dirt in her eyes, a sharp burst of pain shot from her shoulder down her entire right arm. A wave of nausea struck her and she took a deep breath as she fell backwards into the rubble to let it pass. 

She forced her eyes open again, a deep, dull pain searing though her chest with each breath, and looked around. Her immediate surroundings were nothing but the remains of what appeared to be a small building of some kind. Twisted steel and splintered lumber lay all around. It was cold and the ground that wasn’t covered in debris appeared to be covered in a very thick layer of snow. The air smelled heavily of smoke. 

"What happened?" she muttered almost incoherently as she tried to sit up again. She leaned back immediately when stars burst behind her eyes and another sharp pain raced down her arm. 

As she laid against the field of debris, she tried to lift her right arm again but pain stopped her. A quick glance told her all she needed to know: it was broken. A piece of bone pierced through the skin of her collarbone and she had to look away before the nausea could return. 

_No wonder my arm hurts_, she thought and glanced at it again before looking away again. 

The smell of smoke hit her again and she struggled back to a sitting position, ignoring the pain radiating from her collar to her hand. None of what she saw was familiar, and as she thought about her surroundings, she realized that she couldn’t remember anything. She didn't know where she was, how she’d gotten there, or why she was there. 

She closed her eyes again and concentrated hard, letting the questions run through her mind until finally coming to a question that made her eyes shoot open with the realization that she couldn’t answer it. 

"Who am I?" 

Panic overtook her and she had to will herself to breathe normally. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. She was clearly injured – the pain in her chest in addition to the broken bone sticking through the skin of her clavicle were obvious, but looking down she noticed her left leg was bent at an odd angle. More terrifying, though, she couldn’t remember who she was. 

"Okay," she breathed, looking away from the injuries she couldn’t stop looking at. "Calm down. Think. Breathe." 

Her left hand shook as she fumbled into the pocket of her winter coat. It closed around something rectangular and flexible. Yanking it free, she studied the cover for a long moment. 

Her passport. 

She dropped it to the ground and opened it one-handed and read the words printed there. 

"Rebecca Johnson," she read aloud slowly. She was 32 and a resident of Canada. She looked around again and decided that even if she couldn’t remember Canada, this probably wasn’t it. 

Rebecca swallowed hard and tasted something metallic. She jammed her passport back into her coat pocket and gingerly touched her lip. Her finger came away bloody. A more careful exploration of her face yielded more blood and she decided she couldn’t stay there, wherever there was. She needed to get help. She searched her pockets for a phone, a map, anything that might help before getting up onto her right knee and attempting to get into a standing position. Her left leg screamed at her and she shifted her weight to her uninjured leg, nearly falling back down. 

That’s when she spotted the handgun in the snow a few inches from where she had been laying. She bent carefully at the waist, making an effort to not topple over, and grabbed for the weapon. It felt heavy but familiar in her hand as if she’d held it hundreds of times before. She jammed it into the waist band of her pants. 

"Why the hell do I have a gun?" she wondered and scanned her surroundings again. 

Wherever she was, there were no obvious roads or landmarks. Snow stretched out in all directions. Rebecca squinted up towards the sun. It was low on the horizon and it felt like it was late in the day; she guessed it would set soon. 

She took another deep breath. The pain in her ribs caused her to flinch and she slammed her eyes closed. 

"Okay, Rebecca," she said determinedly. "Let’s go. We need to find... well, someone." 

She took a staggering step forward, her left leg protesting, unwilling and unable to support even a little bit of her weight. Rebecca looked around again and spotted what looked like some kind of vehicle tracks in the snow. She dragged her mangled leg behind her and forced herself forward in the direction of the tracks. 

The pain in her shoulder burned and her left leg was useless. She considered dropping to her hands and knees but was afraid she wouldn't make any progress like that either. Besides, her hands were already cold and turning a light shade of blue. Putting them on the cold snow wouldn’t help any. She took another lurching step forward. Before she could react, another wave of dizziness overtook her. Rebecca fell to the ground, her right arm and shoulder hitting the ground. The impact sent sharp waves of pain through her. Darkness began to settle around the edges of her vision and then everything went black. 


	2. Patterson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have put this disclaimer at the start of the first chapter, but I sorta suck:
> 
> If you haven't seen the Season 4 finale, maybe watch it before continuing on with this fic. I LOVE to build off of episodes and this fic is no exception.

Patterson wiped dirt from her face, succeeding only in transferring the dirt from her hands to her forehead and cheeks, and inspected the obstacle in front of her. The tunnel had collapsed, and twisted steel, mounds of dirt, and rocks blocked her path. 

"Weller? Reade?" she yelled. "Guys?" 

There was no response from her friends, and Patterson turned around in what remained of the small entrance to the tunnel system. A vague memory of a text from Weitz played in her mind: _Bomb. __Run. Now._ Seconds later, the cabin blew up. Weller and Reade were the first into the smugglers' tunnel, and she’d been close on their heels but not close enough. The force of the blast had knocked her off her feet and sent her tumbling down through the open tunnel hatch. She couldn't remember anything else; she'd been knocked out. 

Patterson did a quick inventory of herself for injuries, finding nothing but a few small cuts and scrapes and some sore spots on her back and arms that would most likely turn into ugly purple and yellow bruises later. A dull ache pounded just behind her eyes. Maybe a concussion.

"Okay," she said slowly, as she worked on getting her bearings. With the tunnel collapsed, the only way out was up. She stretched up towards the closed steel hatch but her reach fell about a foot short. Patterson jumped and the tips of her fingers brushed the metal barrier but she couldn't open it. 

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," she muttered and looked around for anything that might help. 

She spotted a cinder block wedged beneath the wreckage of the collapsed tunnel and grabbed it with both hands. She tugged hard, the block finally coming free with a suddenness that sent Patterson sprawling backwards into the tunnel wall. 

Patterson lay against the dirt of the tunnel with the cinder block in her lap. She shook her head and brushed her hair away from her face before dumping the block onto the ground and getting back to her feet. She shoved the block into place beneath the hatch and cautiously stepped onto it with one foot, testing its stability before stepping onto it completely. Her palms pressed flat against the door, she pushed upwards, shoving the door open. After a few tries to pull herself out of the tunnel, she noticed the small ladder bolted onto the wall just beneath the opening and rolled her eyes. 

"Oh man, Patty," she moaned and climbed up the ladder and into the remains of the cabin. 

Patterson froze at the top of the steps. The shack she’d been in earlier was gone. The furnishings were blown apart and the walls, doors, and windows were nothing but splintered pieces of wood and twisted steel strewn across the snow. 

_It’s a good thing no one was in here_, she thought as she walked slowly through the wreckage. 

She stopped walking suddenly. Only Reade and Weller had made it into the tunnel ahead of her. Jane was outside; she’d taken first watch. Patterson hoped that when the cabin exploded, Jane had run. They all knew the dangers they were facing. They were on the run from their own government in an effort to clear their names. If someone had blown up their safe house, then someone had known where they were. Based on Weitz’s warning, Patterson guessed it was someone from the Department of Justice. Jane needed to run if only to keep herself alive. 

But where was Tasha? She’d been right behind Patterson on her way into the smuggler’s tunnel, but then the explosion had blown the shack apart. Patterson had tumbled through the open hatch door but when she’d finally come to after however long had passed, she was alone. Tasha was nowhere in sight.

"Ohmygod, Tasha," she breathed and frantically began searching the wreckage for signs of her friend. 

Patterson overturned pieces of broken lumber as if she’d find Tasha hidden underneath its splinters. She heaved what remained of the front door but only found snow. She put her hands on her hips and turned slowly, surveying the debris field and the snow that surrounded her. 

A dark form was on the ground a few hundred yards away. Patterson squinted into the dying sunlight to try to make out what it might be. Was that...? Yes. It looked like a person. 

Patterson’s breath caught in her throat at the sight. It looked like someone was lying on the snow. If it was a member of her team, that meant it could be Jane or Tasha. She waded carefully through the debris field, continuing to squint towards the form on the snow. Once she cleared the last piece of broken timber, Patterson began to jog. As she got closer, her jog turned into a sprint. 

Tasha Zapata lay on the snow with her back to her. Her jacket was rucked up in the back to reveal her handgun, and her left leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. As Patterson approached, she saw the blood that stained the snow beneath Tasha’s right shoulder and then spotted the broken bone that tore through the skin of the agent’s clavicle. 

"Tasha!" Patterson called as she knelt in the snow beside her friend. She wanted to reach out and roll Tasha off her injured arm but was afraid there might be other injuries she couldn’t see. "Tash!" 

The woman on the ground stirred slightly and let out a low pained moan. Her eyes fluttered slightly but didn’t open. 

"Tasha!" Patterson tried again, this time reaching down to touch the other woman’s uninjured hand. "Tasha, oh thank god. I thought you were... It doesn’t matter. You're not. You’re alive. Are you okay? Can you get up?" 

Tasha opened her eyes and stared blankly at Patterson for a minute. She scooted backwards from the woman hovering over her. Her eyes went wide and terror crossed her face. She reached for the gun tucked into the waist of her pants and leveled it at Patterson. 

Patterson put her hands up in surrender and stood up slowly. 

"Woah! Woah! Tash, it’s me. It’s Patterson," she said quickly and taking a step backwards. "It’s me." 

The agent on the ground shook her head uncomprehendingly, but didn’t let the gun drop. 

"Who’s Tasha?" she asked and tried to scoot backwards again but her left leg wasn’t having it and she gave a sharp gasp of pain, loosening her grip on the handgun. 

Patterson dropped back onto her knees and gently reached for the gun. She carefully pried it from Tasha’s hand and set it far away from both of them as she considered Tasha’s question. 

_Who’s Tasha._

"Do you know what’s going on?" Patterson asked, trying a different approach. "Do you know who I am? Do you recognize me?" 

Tasha shook her head. She wanted to move farther away from this woman but the pain in her leg and shoulder kept her frozen in place. 

"Okay," Patterson replied and sat down in the snow. She didn’t speak for a minute, waiting for Tasha to drop her defensive posture. Even with her leg obviously broken and a broken collarbone, Tasha looked wild and dangerous. Patterson needed her to calm down. It was cold out and Tasha was still bleeding. The last thing she needed was for her friend to go into shock or pass out again. 

Tasha watched Patterson shrewdly. The woman who’d appeared crouched over her didn’t look familiar but she seemed to know her. Or at least she _thought_ she knew her, but she kept calling her "Tasha." She studied the newcomer’s face. She was dirty and had a few cuts on her face. Maybe she’d been with her when _whatever _happened. 

"I found this in my pocket," she said finally, digging the passport back out of her coat pocket and tossing it towards Patterson. "It says my name is —" 

"Rebecca Johnson," Patterson supplied without opening the passport. 

Tasha furrowed her brow in confusion. 

"Then why do you keep calling me Tasha?" she asked. 

Patterson sighed slightly and tried to piece it together. Tasha had been caught in the blast. She wasn’t sure how she’d survived it at all – especially considering that everything else had been blown to bits – but she had. Part of surviving it, however, mean that she’d been seriously injured and seemed to be suffering from some kind of amnesia. She’d probably been struck in the head by falling debris. She didn’t know who she was, where she was, or who Patterson was. 

"Okay," Patterson began slowly, dragging the word out. "Your name is Natasha Zapata. Tasha. The passport you found in your pocket is fake. You’re an FBI agent – Federal Bureau of Investigation – and, well the passport doesn’t matter. It’s not real. I made it for you and one for...everyone. You’re from New York City. So am I. I’m W- Patterson," she continued, eschewing her first name as she decided that if Tasha didn’t remember her face, her first name certainly wouldn’t mean anything to her. 

Tasha raised an eyebrow skeptically. 

_The passport is fake? Yeah, right. _

She didn’t know what had been happening, but it couldn’t have been good. It looked like something had blown up and judging by her condition, she’d been inside of it. There were a lot of pieces missing and _maybe_ what this Patterson was telling her was true, but whatever the case, she didn’t feel safe. Someone had blown up whatever structure she’d been inside of. Friendly people didn’t try to kill you. Not that she knew why someone would try to kill her. The part about being an FBI agent sounded like it could be true, though. That would at least explain why she had a gun. 

"Okay, I’ll play along," she said. "I’m an FBI agent. Where’s my badge? Where’s _your_ badge?" 

Patterson dug through her pockets, unzipping her coat and groping through the zipped interior compartments. Her fingers found her federal ID and she pulled it out to show Tasha. 

"Check your pockets," she said with a shrug. "Look, Tash, I get it. You don’t believe me; you don’t trust me. Why would you? You wake up out in the middle of nowhere —" 

"Where are we, exactly?" Tasha interrupted, not bothering to search for an ID. 

"Iceland," Patterson said. "We were hiding in a smuggler’s shack." 

"Iceland," she repeated in surprise. She was right, it definitely wasn't Canada.

"Yeah." 

Tasha fell silent and Patterson could sense that she was trying to put it together. It had to be confusing. She’d woken up outside, surrounded by destruction. She was bleeding, dirty, and her memory was gone. She was about to try to explain things again but Tasha was staring at her. 

"We work together?" Tasha asked and Patterson nodded. 

"Yeah," she replied. "You went to the CIA for a while but we work together. I’m the head of the forensic science unit. We’re best friends." 

Tasha bit her lip and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with her left hand. She was carefully bracing her right arm tight against her body. 

"Best friends," she repeated. 

Patterson nodded again. 

"Well, you're my best friend any way." 

Tasha swallowed hard and looked around. Wherever they were - Iceland, if Patterson was telling her the truth – they were the only ones around and the sun was starting to set. She had no idea how far away they were from civilization or help of any kind. The pain in her arm and leg reminded her that she wasn’t okay. Whether she trusted this Patterson or not, she needed medical attention. She licked her bottom lip and looked back at Patterson. 

"So, what do we do?" she asked. "I think I probably need a doctor." 

Patterson grinned slightly. 

"Probably. Is it just your leg and arm?" 

Tasha shook her head. 

"Maybe a couple broken ribs? It hurts to breathe. And I have a headache." 

"Hurts or feels like you’re drowning?" she asked, concern on her face. 

"Just hurts." 

Patterson nodded solemnly. She groped in the back pocket of her jeans for her phone and pulled it out to check for a signal. The screen was shattered, the display dark. 

"I don’t suppose you have your phone." 

Tasha shook her head again. 

"Of course not," Patterson replied with a sigh and got to her feet. She looked around, using the setting sun as her guide post. If she was right, there should be a village east of here. It shouldn’t be too far, but far enough that the explosion had gone unnoticed or ignored. Maybe a few miles. With Tasha’s leg looking the way it did, Patterson didn’t know how they’d make the trek. "And I’m guessing you can’t walk." 

"I can try," Tasha replied hopefully. "I started to but... I guess I passed out." 

Patterson was no longer listening. She held up a single finger to Tasha in a signal to wait and then hurried back to where she’d set Tasha’s gun and picked it up. She pulled the clip and then zipped both inside her own coat pocket before returning to Tasha’s side and crouching low beside her left side. 

"Come on," she said, wrapping an arm around Tasha’s waist and gripping hard as she struggled to help the injured woman to her feet. "We’re both smart and resourceful. We can figure this out." 

Tasha got shakily up, putting all of her weight on her right leg. Patterson adjusted her grip around her waist and gave her a serious look. 

"Wanna try a couple steps?" she asked. 

"Okay," Tasha conceded and blew out a breath. 

"Ready?" Patterson asked. "One, two, step." 

They stepped forward in unison, Tasha using Patterson’s body as a crutch. Her left leg hurt but it wasn’t the same screaming pain that had caused her to collapse earlier. They took another tentative step forward and then Tasha nodded. 

"It’s okay," she said and looked around. "Where are we going?" 

Patterson gestured with her head towards the sun that was edging ever closer to the horizon. 

"There’s a fishing village that way," she said. "It’s a few miles, we passed it on our way back from Perlan Museum...which I realize now means nothing to you... but it should be that way." 

Tasha tried to take another deep breath, ignoring the throbbing in her chest. 

"Okay," she said. "I trust you. Let's go." 

Patterson took one last look back at the remains of the cabin. She hoped that Reade and Weller were able to follow the tunnel to wherever it ended and that Jane had fled to safety somewhere. There was nothing she could do for them now, but she could help Tasha – even if Tasha didn’t know who she was or what had happened. 


	3. What Happens Next

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your kudos and comments, guys. I may not be so prompt with the responses these days, but each comment and kudo makes my poor egotistical writer's heart soar.

Getting to the small fishing village was slow going. Tasha couldn't go more than 50 steps without needing a quick rest, and they’d already stopped twice since leaving the wreckage of the cabin. The pain from her leg combined with the burning pain at her collarbone and throbbing in her arm increased with each jostling step forward. She hated to keep making them stop, the sun was rapidly setting, but she couldn't keep their pace. The pain was too great. 

Patterson steered them towards a cluster of large rocks and helped Tasha sit. She glanced at her friend’s injured shoulder and arm. The bleeding hadn’t stopped although it had slowed significantly. If they couldn't find help soon, though, Patterson worried the gross but simple injuries would get worse. They definitely needed a doctor to take a look at Tasha’s leg and do _something_ about the bone sticking disturbingly through her skin. She sat on a rock opposite Tasha. 

"Are you okay?" she asked stupidly, already knowing the answer. 

Tasha gave a non-committal head bob that could be interpreted as both yes and no. 

"I’m sorry we have to keep stopping," she said apologetically. "I keep thinking I’m gonna pass out or be sick." 

Patterson waved off her apology and looked at the sun. She figured there was still a few hours before it was dark. Once it got dark, the already near freezing temperatures would drop farther making continued exposure even more dangerous. For now, Patterson was grateful for Iceland’s long hours of sunlight. 

"It’s not too much farther," Patterson said, hoping that was true. She wiped a hand over her mouth and chin and gave a sigh. "I know you're having trouble remembering —" 

"I don’t remember anything," Tasha interrupted, correcting her. 

"Right. But, okay, so... we're the good guys. I promise," she said, drawing a cross over her heart with her index finger. "The thing is, people don’t _think_ that right now. That's why you've got that phony passport. When we reach help we're gonna need a cover story and we're gonna hafta use our fakes." 

Tasha frowned but nodded. She didn’t understand any of what was happening, but she had figured Patterson was involved in something serious. Otherwise, why would she be so injured and why would the cabin they’d been occupying been blown up? She had no reasons to trust Patterson, but something told her that she should. 

"So, what’s the story?" she asked. 

Patterson didn’t answer immediately. She was still trying to work that out. If word had spread about what happened at the museum, they wouldn’t need to worry about a cover story. They’d be arrested immediately and sent back to the United States where they’d probably tried for treason. It wouldn’t matter if Tasha couldn’t remember her own name let alone what happened. 

"Umm," Patterson began. "Well, we can say we’re tourists from Canada and we were checking out the glaciers. You fell maybe?" 

"That’s a hell of a fall," Tasha said. 

"Do you have a better idea?" Patterson asked roughly, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Tasha thought for a minute and finally shook her head. 

"What _were_ we doing out there?" she asked. 

"It’s a long story," Patterson admittedly, uncrossing her arms so she could rub her hands together. Her fingers were ice cold. They needed to find shelter soon or risk frostbite. "Just, let’s say, that we’ve been framed for something and we came from New York to Iceland to prove that we didn’t do it and I guess the DOJ found us and fired a missile at us." 

"That... that sound sounds sketchy," Tasha said hesitantly. It was another reason not to trust Patterson but, she didn’t know. There was something there. Something that was telling her it was okay to trust this woman even if the story she told her sounded ridiculous. She might not remember Patterson's name or face, but her energy felt familiar and safe.

Patterson shrugged. 

"I know." 

Tasha sighed, ignoring the throbbing in her chest and looked in the direction they’d been traveling. 

"Okay," she said. "I fell. Maybe I landed on some rocks. Your phone broke when you tried to get me and mine got lost." 

Patterson thought about this for a minute and then nodded. 

"That works." 

"Help me up and we can go," Tasha continued. She reached out to grab onto Patterson and waited for the blonde woman to return to her side. They slowly got back up, Tasha putting most of her weight on Patterson’s shoulder as the other woman wrapped her arm around her waist to steady her. 

*** 

The village loomed ahead. They were close enough that Patterson could make out the shape of a man loading containers into the back of a pickup truck. She glanced over at Tasha. The Latina looked exhausted and her face had gone pale. It’d been a while since she said anything and if it weren’t for her breath coming ragged in her ear, Patterson would have wondered if she were conscious. She raised her free left hand up and waved it wildly over her head. 

"Hey!" she called loudly as they continued to lurch forwards towards the man and the village. "Hey! We need some help." 

Tasha had been in a daze as they’d walked the last half-mile, and Patterson’s shout had brought her back to their current situation. She couldn’t wave an arm – her left arm was secured around Patterson’s shoulders and her right arm ached even though she held it tightly against herself. 

"Hey! Help! Please!" she yelled, joining Patterson’s call to the man by the truck. She dropped her voice and looked to Patterson. "Do they even speak English here?" 

Patterson nodded. 

"Thirty-two percent of the population speak English," she replied quietly, but then tried again, more loudly in Icelandic. "Hjálp!" 

The man at the truck looked up, and neither woman was sure if he’d just heard them or if it was the sound of Icelandic being hollered at him, but he looked away from his work and squinted towards them, shielding his eyes with his hand. As if he suddenly realized what he was seeing, he ran towards them, crossing the snow to reach them in a matter of seconds. He studied them for a second, his eyes narrowing as he saw Tasha’s injuries. 

"American?" he asked. 

"Canadian," they replied simultaneously and Patterson breathed a sigh of relief that they'd so far stuck to their cover story. 

"English?" he asked. 

Patterson nodded. 

"Yeah, English. My Icelandic isn’t so great," she said. "We were out looking at glaciers and my friend slipped. She landed on some rocks." 

The man raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked over his shoulder in the direction they had come from. 

"You walked like this all the way from the glaciers? It’s more than 3 kilometers," he said in accented English. "Your friend needs a doctor." 

"I lost my phone when I fell," Tasha explained. 

Patterson nodded as they continued walking. The man was steering them towards a nearby building with smoke coming from a chimney. She was anxious to get inside somewhere warm. 

"Mine fell out of my pocket when I jumped down to get her and I broke it," she lied. 

The man gestured with his head towards the building. Patterson noticed it had a wooden sign hanging from over the door but couldn’t make out the Icelandic words on it. She knew she should have spent more time studying the language on their flight from New York. 

"That’s my shop," he said. "We’ll go there and I’ll call for a doctor. You’re probably going to need a hospital." 

Patterson grimaced at the suggestion of a hospital. If the police were going to find them, it’d be in the hospital. Plus, it was only a matter of time before someone went out to the cabin, discovered it was blown to bits, and there was a distinct lack of bodies. Someone would be looking for them. It was only a matter of time. 

He let go of his grasp on Tasha and made sure that Patterson could support her weight again. He hurried ahead and unlocked the shop doors and held them wide open for them. Once inside, he grabbed a chair from behind a counter and brought it around, helping Tasha sit. 

"Sit. Stay," he commanded and then disappeared into a back room, where, Patterson hoped, he was making a phone call to a doctor who maybe wouldn’t ask too many questions. 

Patterson paced the small shop, peering out of the windows into the small village. No one had seemed to notice the big burly man with the beard who’d accompanied two women, one of whom appeared to be severely injured, into his shop. She couldn't decide if that was good or bad. 

She turned back to Tasha. Her instinct was to crouch in front of her and examine her injuries more fully but she didn’t want to push her luck. Tasha didn’t know who she was and, so far, had been playing along. There might come a time when she’d stop playing along. They couldn’t afford for that to happen now. Not if they wanted to get medical help and to leave before the authorities got curious. 

The man returned from the back room. He had something woolen draped over his shoulder and carried two steaming mugs. 

"My friend, Jón, he’s a doctor. I called him. He’s coming," he said and then held out the mugs to them. When they hesitated to take them, he gave a small smile. "Coffee." 

"Thank you," Patterson said, taking the offered mug and wrapping her hands around it. Her fingers had been so cold, the heat from the mug caused them to tingle as they slowly regained feeling. 

Tasha took the other mug with her left hand and sipped it, unsure whether she even liked coffee. After one taste, however, she decided that she must have been a coffee drinker and took a larger swallow. 

"My name is Kristjan," the man said, taking the wool item from his shoulder. He went behind Tasha and draped it carefully over her shoulders. 

"Rebecca," Tasha said and smiled as Kristjan stepped back in front of her. "Thank you." 

Kristjan offered a second wool cardigan to Patterson and she took it gratefully. 

"Thank you," she said. "I know it gets cold here but wow..." 

Kristjan laughed heartily and slapped a hand on the counter. 

"This is one of our warmest months," he said. "Nine degrees yesterday!" 

Patterson was about to reply but a small chime from behind her tore her attention away and she looked back to see the door of the shop opening. A short man with graying hair entered. He looked from Patterson to Tasha to Kristjan before approaching the shopkeeper. They spoke hurriedly in Icelandic and then the newcomer turned back to them. 

"Kristjan says you walked 3 kilometers after falling from a glacier?" he asked and cocked an eyebrow, looking from Patterson to Tasha. His gaze lingered on the exposed bone at Tasha’s clavicle. "With such a gruesome injury?" 

Tasha nodded. 

"Our phones," she began. 

"Mine broke," Patterson supplied. "Her’s got lost when she fell." 

The newcomer nodded and shrugged out of his coat. He rubbed his hands together. Patterson looked at Kristjan for an explanation. He stepped to the side to let the shorter man pass into the back room. 

"That’s Jón," he said. "Very good doctor. Promise." 

Jón’s voice rang out from the back room. 

"Kristjan isn’t the best fishmonger in town but he’s an honest man. I _am_ a good doctor," he said and returned to the room. He pointed a finger at Tasha. "But that is a nasty break. Anything else broken?" 

Tasha exchanged a look with Patterson and then nodded. 

"My left leg. I can’t put any weight on it," she said gesturing at her leg. "And I think I broke a couple of ribs." 

Jón nodded and came around to face Tasha. He stared into her eyes before fishing a small penlight from a pocket. He shone it in her eyes. 

"Any problems breathing?" 

She shook her head. 

"No," she said. "Just hurts." 

Jón nodded and pocketed the light. He looked down to her leg and noticed for the first time how her shin seemed out of alignment with her upper leg. 

"You’re American?" 

"Canadian," Patterson and Tasha replied quickly. 

Jón nodded again. 

"Same thing," he said as he began rolling up Tasha’s pant leg. "Paracetamols. Aspirin, I guess you call them. It'll help your ribs. Nothing I can do for that." 

He turned back to look at Kristjan. 

"I’m taking over your office," he said suddenly and held out a hand to Tasha. "Up, please." 

*** 

Patterson stared out the window of Kristjan’s shop and searched the single street running through the village center. Her eyes focused on every movement; half convinced that police would arrive any moment. 

"Your friend will be okay," Kristjan said quietly. He’d been doing some kind of book work in a large ledger behind the counter but looked up now for the first time since Tasha and Jón disappeared into his office. He set his pen down and cleared his throat. "But you’re not telling me the truth. What are you running from?" 

The question startled Patterson and she turned slowly away from the windows. 

"Nothing," she lied. "We were —" 

"On the glaciers," Kristjan finished. "So you said, but you’ve been staring out my windows since you got here, jumping at every noise, and I still don’t know your name." 

Patterson swallowed hard. When she’d created the fake passports for the rest of the team, they’d all been given fake names. Rebecca Johnson, Joan Boe, Frank Rossi, Chet Hutson. She’d been so crunched for time, though, that she’d used her real first name on her documents. There was nothing _wrong_ with her first name, but she never used it. It could wind up being the only trail back to them. 

"Lisa," she lied, wondering why she hadn’t use _that _name, and held out a hand for him to shake. "I’m sorry. Rebecca’s my best friend. I’m just worried about her." 

Kristjan took her outstretched hand and gave it a single pump 

"Wife?" he asked as he picked his pen back up. 

Patterson nearly spit her coffee back out. 

"No," she said quickly, wiping up the coffee mess she made. "Nothing like that. Just friends." 

Kristjan handed her a paper napkin from behind the counter. 

"Okay, well, your ‘just friend’ will be just fine. Jón is the best," he assured her. "But if you’re in trouble... Iceland is small. People talk. Word travels. It’s not safe around here lately. You heard about the hostage situation at the Perlan Museum?" 

Patterson _had_ heard about the situation. She’d been part of it technically, but she shook her head. 

"Something happened?" she asked. 

Kristjan frowned. 

"American took everyone hostage. Police are looking for five suspects," he said quietly. "You two should get out of Iceland quickly. If you need passage, I can maybe arrange for a fishing boat." 

Patterson didn’t respond, unsure what the appropriate response should be. 

"It will be cold and it will smell like fish," Kristjan continued. "But if you’re trying to get away... I can help."

She raised an eyebrow and her eyes darted towards where Jón and Tasha had disappeared. Kristjan was suspicious. They needed to go as soon as possible. She was preparing an excuse and another lie in her head when he spoke again.

"It's okay," Kristjan said. "I don't know what you're involved in, _Lisa_, but Jón is discrete. He helped me when I needed to avoid a hospital. That's why I called him. He'll help your friend and then I can help you leave."


	4. Weller and Reade, aka Misters Hutson and Rossi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s the plan, Kurt?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... I'm pretty much writing my own season 5 over here. Don't mind me, the clutter, or the muttering sound. I'm fine. 
> 
> Also, seriously, I can't urge you enough... if you haven't seen the season 4 finale, you should or some of this will make no sense at all. I love building off episodes and this work is no exception. 
> 
> And, as always, your kudos and comments make my day. Feel free to give me grief on Twitter @danawpatterson.

Weller was awake before Reade and, after checking the other man for a pulse, he began inspecting the newly formed wall of dirt and rock that effectively closed the tunnel off from its entrance. There was no way to go back the way they’d come. The debris had created a solid barrier. He'd spent a few minutes looking for ways to break through it but the thought that the ceiling might collapse on him had ended his investigation. Now he slumped down beside it and tried to quiet his racing mind while waiting for Reade to regain consciousness. 

Patterson had been right behind him when the explosion hit. He _thought_ she’d made it into the tunnel but it was just him and Reade. Maybe she was on the other side of the wall. What about Tasha? Weller couldn’t remember seeing her behind them. And Jane? She hadn’t even been in the shack when it blew up. He hoped she was okay and had followed her gut and run. 

At the thought of Patterson trapped on the other side of the tunnel, he got back up and turned to face the wall of dirt. Weller cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. 

“Patterson!” 

Instead of reply from the other side of the dirt wall, a slight groan came from a few feet away as Reade began to regain consciousness. He opened his eyes slowly and brushed the dirt out of them with the back of his hand. 

“Kurt,” Reade called quietly, his voice scratchy from the amount of dust he’d inhaled. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Weller!” 

Kurt stopped yelling and turned to see Reade getting to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes. 

“You okay?” he asked and then gestured to the mound of dirt separating the tunnel in two. “Entrance is blocked. I think Patterson and Tasha were right behind us.” 

Reade looked at the solid mass of dirt and rock that sealed the tunnel off from its opening. 

“I’m fine,” Reade replied. “They over there? You hear anything?” 

Weller shook his head. 

"Nothing,” he said. 

Reade swallowed hard. His relationship with Tasha was dicey, but they were friends and he was still holding out hope that maybe after all of this was over, they’d be able to give a real relationship a shot. His feelings for her were intense and for a fleeting moment he was nearly paralyzed with dread. If the tunnel’s new dirt wall was any indicator, the shack was gone. If Tasha and Patterson hadn’t made it below ground, there was a good chance they’d been killed. 

“What about Jane?” he asked, realizing the tattooed woman hadn’t even been in the shack when Weitz sent his brief text. “Any idea?” 

Weller shook his head again. 

“No,” he said frowning and crossed his arms over his chest. “She was outside on first watch. I don’t know...” 

Reade clapped a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. 

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he said reassuringly. “I mean it’s Jane.” 

“Yeah,” Weller agreed. “You’re probably right. It's Jane.” 

“Or Joan,” Reade chuckled. 

“Miss Boe?” Weller replied with an amused tone in his voice. 

He turned to peer into the darkened tunnel ahead. Ice Cream hadn’t told them where the tunnels went, and for all they knew, they’d be brought right back to the Perlan. If there was any place Kurt Weller wanted to avoid, it was the Perlan Museum. He was certain it was still swarming with police after he'd pulled a gun and taken the entire place hostage to give Patterson a chance to escape. Weller fished his phone from his jacket pocket and checked for a signal. As he expected, there was none. The ladder they’d climbed to get into the tunnel only took them about 7 feet underground, but the cell signal had been weak to begin with. 

Reade spotted the glow from Weller’s phone and looked over his shoulder at the screen. 

“You got a signal?” he asked as he dug into his own pocket for his phone. 

“No,” Weller replied and tapped the button to activate the flashlight. The tunnel was suddenly awash with light and he took a tentative step forward to get a look at where it might lead. 

Reade glanced down at his own screen. His phone didn’t have a signal either, but his eyes were drawn to the battery icon in the top corner. There was about a 75% charge left and he immediately turned the screen off again. 

“What’s your battery life like?” he asked, following Weller around a slight bend in the tunnel. 

“About half,” Weller replied. He wished he’d remembered to grab a spare power pack before leaving New York. With his flashlight running, the phone would be dead within a few hours. “Yours?” 

“More than that,” Reade replied and pulled his phone out again and pressing the power button. “Let’s use yours first. I’m turning mine off. Save the battery.” 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, letting the tunnel lead them wherever it was going to lead them. The light from Weller’s phone bounced off the occasional steel beams that supported the tunnel, illuminating the space further. 

Reade finally broke the silence. 

“Do you think they’re okay?” he asked. “Zapata and Patterson?” 

Weller glanced over at Reade before turning his attention back to the path. He'd been trying not to think about the rest of the team. Any number of things could have happened and he tried to shut out the negative thoughts that wanted to intrude. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Absolutely. They’re a good team.” 

“But if they didn’t make it underground —” 

“They made it,” Weller interrupted. “The ceiling just collapsed. They’re on the other side. They’re fine. Patterson's probably building a ladder from the debris to get out right now.” 

Reade nodded and thought about this. Patterson _had_ been right behind them and Tasha was right behind her. They made it. He just hoped they could find their way out and someplace safe. They were all on the run, now, the timeline had just been moved up a little bit. 

“So...” he began, drawing the word out. “What’s the plan, Kurt? I mean, where are we going? What are we doing?” 

Weller shrugged. 

“Right now? I plan to follow this tunnel until I find a way out of here,” he replied. “Then? I don’t know. We never got that far. I guess we try to find Jane and Patterson and Tasha and regroup and then... I don’t know, Reade.” 

“Okay,” Reade said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “That’s a better plan than I’ve got so, lead on, Chet.” 

Weller smirked at him and shook his head slightly. 

“After you, Mr. Rossi.” 


	5. Joan, Alone

Jane watched in horror as the smugglers' shack where her husband and friends were sleeping was blown into a million pieces. For a minute she stood frozen in place, watching as flames rose from the wreckage and debris rained down from above. When her body caught up with her brain, her first thought was to go towards the remains of the hideout but her second thought was to stop moving again. Someone had blown up the shack. It wasn't a mistake or an accident. They were still being hunted and their pursuers weren’t afraid to use deadly force. Extreme deadly force. 

She stared as the flames began to die down and tried to form a plan. Kurt was in that building, and while her brain insisted that she run and put as much distance between the shack and herself as possible, her heart urged her to plunge into the wreckage and search for her husband and friends. Jane took a deep breath and gave the burning remains one last look before turning and starting to run. 

Jane didn’t know where she was heading, and she tried to remember the last time she’d seen a road or a town or a person who wasn’t associated with the team. As she ran, her mind raced along with her. She was certain no one knew they were at the shack, but someone must have known. Whoever it was, it was someone with access to large, long-range missiles. That meant it was the United States’ Department of Justice and someone would be coming soon to verify target elimination. 

Elimination. 

Kurt was inside that shack. Patterson, Reade, Tasha. They were all inside. She stopped running and bent at the waist, retching into the snow. 

Jane stayed with her hands on her bent knees for a long minute. Her eyes were unfocused and she tried to convince herself that somehow her husband and friends had made it out of the shack before it blew up. 

“The tunnel,” she said to no one and straightened back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. They’d definitely made their way into the tunnel. It didn’t feel like her husband was dead. Shouldn’t she feel something if he were dead? 

_They’d escaped_, she reasoned. _They must have. _

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and was about to tap Kurt’s contact when she stopped. If the government was trying to kill them, they’d be monitoring their cell phones. The second she tried to make a call or she used her mobile network, they’d know she was alive and on the move. Jane huffed out a breath and looked around, spotting a cluster of rocks nearby. She set her phone on a flat rock, took another breath, and stomped down hard on it, smashing the screen and sending pieces in every direction. 

“You can’t track what doesn’t exist,” she said. 

*** 

It was hard to keep a sense of time. Iceland was currently experiencing 18-hour days of sunlight. It could have been 1 p.m. or 8 p.m. Jane didn’t know. What she did know is that she’d been running for a while. The muscles in her legs were starting to protest. 

She looked back over her shoulder as she stopped running. The remains of the shack were no longer in view. What was in view, however, were her footprints. If the government sent someone to visually verify the target’s elimination and to retrieve the bodies, they’d see the footprints leaving the scene. They’d know someone was still alive. She prayed for strong winds to wipe away the evidence, but it was too late to do anything about it now. 

Jane picked up a slow jog and pushed herself a little farther. She wouldn’t let herself believe that she was just running deeper and deeper into the wilderness. As she began to wonder exactly where she was, a road came into view. She stopped running and moved out of the direct line-of-sight of any travelers. Roads meant traffic, and traffic meant being spotted. Even with her fake Joan Boe passport, Jane had a hard time melting into a crowd and there weren’t many crowds in Iceland. 

She jammed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and retrieved her wallet and the fake passport Patterson had made for her. There was enough cash that she could probably pay for a one-way flight to the U.K. or Canada. Leaving Iceland, however, almost felt like giving up on Kurt and the team. 

It didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay there. If they were alive, and she was convinced that they were alive, they would be trying to get out of Iceland, too. She swallowed hard and rezipped her jacket pockets before heading towards the road. 

The idea of hitchhiking sucked. Her Icelandic wasn’t terrible. It was just one of the many languages she knew, but she knew she looked like a foreigner. Her mere presence this far away from the tourist areas would probably raise an eyebrow or two. 

Jane looked up and down the road, searching for a street sign or any indication of which way she should go. There were no signs so Jane just turned left and started walking. She’d need a decent cover story for why she was out here, and she figured she’d have time to work something out while she plodded along. 

She rubbed her hands briskly together and cursed herself for not preparing for the cold weather. It may have been early summer, but it was just about as warm as New York City in January and her fingers were starting to tingle from the prolonged exposure to the cold. When sunlight bounced off the grill of an approaching pickup truck, Jane thought she was hallucinating. Surely the truck was just a figment of her imagination brought on by the cold. She blinked twice to clear her vision, but the truck was still there and it was slowing down. 

“Ógeðslega kalt í göngutúr,” the driver said congenially as the truck came to a full stop next to her. He reached across the seat and opened the door for her. “Þarftu far?” 

(_Awfully cold for a walk_. Do you need a ride?) 

Jane flashed a friendly smile at the bearded man. 

“Þakka þér fyrir,” she replied in a perfect accent. “Ég var á göngu og missti tímann.” 

(_Thank you. I was hiking and lost track of time._) 

She climbed up into the truck and immediately held her ungloved hands in front of the heater vents. 

“You’re American,” the driver said as he put the truck back into drive. “Your Icelandic is good, though.” 

Jane blushed slightly and nodded. 

“Thanks,” she replied. “I’m Canadian, actually.” 

“Canada, huh?” he said. “You’re a long way from home to be hiking.” 

Jane didn’t reply immediately. Her cover story was non-existant. She hadn’t the time to come up with one, but she didn’t want to seem suspicious or rude. 

“I’ve always wanted to see the lights so I took a vacation,” she explained as she watched out the windshield for street signs that might give her a clue to where they were. “I saw the lights and then got a little turned around.” 

The driver gave a hearty laugh and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. 

“You’re not the first person I’ve heard with a story like that,” he said and then held out a hand to her. “Kristjan Jónsson.” 

Jane took his hand and shook it. 

“Joan,” she said. “Boe.” 

Kristjan retook the wheel and steered the truck onto a side road that led towards a small village. Jane spotted smoke streaming from a few chimneys from the homes and shops that dotted the single street. 

“Well, Miss Boe, I need to make up a pickup from my shop and then I’m heading to Hlidar,” he explained. “I can drop you in town there, if you’d like. It's about a 20-minute drive.” 

Jane smiled. 

“Thank you,” she said, grateful he hadn’t said he was heading to Perlan. The police would still be swarming the area looking for the man who’d taken the museum hostage. “That’d be great.“ 

She didn't know much about Hlidar except that it was near Perlan and Perland wasn't far from Reykjavik. Once she got into a town, she could find a way to the airport, and she could go as far as the money in her wallet would take her. Once out of Iceland, she'd worry about looking for the team. Right now, she needed to focus on herself and getting to safety. 


	6. Passage

Jón may have been the best, but there was only so much he could do with a compound fracture of the collarbone without a handful of surgical screws and a trip to a hospital, and the patient had declined. He returned from Kristjan’s office with an arm wrapped around Tasha's waist as he helped the Latina hobble across the room towards the chair she’d vacated earlier. Her arm was strapped tightly to her chest and thick bandages covered her collarbone. Her leg was no longer misaligned but she limped badly. She grimaced as she sat, but it wasn’t the look of sheer agony that had passed over her face earlier in the day when Patterson first found her laying in the snow. 

"You okay, Ta- Rebecca?" Patterson asked, catching herself halfway through using her friend’s real name. This whole fake identity thing was going to be harder than she thought. 

Tasha nodded and looked down at the strapping that held her arm immobile. 

"Yeah," she said. "The walking thing is still questionable. No idea how I’m gonna do that, but —" 

"She’ll be okay," Jón interrupted. "Strong bones, strong muscles. Should heal up really nicely, but she dislocated her knee. That's why it looked like it didn’t belong on her body. We just popped it back in place." 

He made a grotesque popping noise and mimed pushing the joint back in place as he said this last part and both Tasha and Patterson had to look away. 

"Ordinarily I’d say you should use crutches," he continued, not noticing the way everyone reacted to his charades, "but that right arm and shoulder are strictly out of order. Wouldn’t be able to support it." 

Kristjan didn’t say anything while the trio discussed Rebecca’s injuries but his eyes flicked back and forth between the two women. He’d been thinking about Lisa’s behavior since they’d arrived. It was obvious she wasn’t telling him the truth about something, and her friend’s injuries were pretty significant for someone who’d simply slipped off a glacier. Plus, they weren’t the only Canadian women he’d encountered today. He watched as Jón collected his bag, forced a bottle of tablets into Rebecca’s hand, and shrugged into his jacket, shaking his hand as he walked him back to the front door. As soon as the doctor was out of the shop, Kristjan’s hand fell to the front door’s lock and he engaged it quietly before turning back to face Lisa and Rebecca. 

Patterson heard the door lock and she turned quickly from where she stood in front of Tasha, reaching for the gun in the holster that she wasn't actually carrying. 

"Okay, I know you need a way out of Iceland," Kristjan said with a quiet calmness to his voice. He held up a hand when Patterson started to speak, silencing her immediately. "I don’t care what happened or who you are or anything like that. Whatever you did or are on the run from, it doesn’t matter. I think you need help." 

Patterson and Tasha exchanged a look. There was no time to hesitate and deny it. Kristjan had already called their bluff in quite convincing fashion. He may not know they were involved in the incident at the Perlan Museum, but he knew enough. Before Patterson could say anything, Kristjan was talking again. 

"I think I helped a friend of yours earlier today," he said as he stepped around behind the shop counter and rifled underneath it for a moment. When he straightened up again, he was holding a small black zipper bag and he pressed it into Patterson's hands. Patterson and Tasha exchanged another look. "Joan Boe?" 

"Jane," Patterson gasped. Jane was alive. And then realized what she said. She corrected herself. "Joan." 

Kristjan shook his head again. 

"I knew Joan wasn’t her real name," he laughed and slapped the counter good naturedly. "It doesn’t matter, I guess. I picked her up on the road about a kilometer back. Took her to Hlidar a few hours ago. I suspect she was going to try catch a plane." 

Tasha was staring down at her braced arm. She couldn’t remember a Jane let alone a Joan, but Patterson seemed to know her. 

"So..." Patterson began. She didn’t really know what to say. They’d approached this random man and he barely asked them any questions, just invited them into his shop and called a doctor for Tasha. She’d lied to him out of necessity, but he somehow had seen right through them. And what were the odds that he’d encountered Jane. _Jane was okay._ A million thoughts raced through Patterson’s mind and she didn’t know which one to vocalize first. 

Kristjan seemed to sense this. 

"Lisa, please, don’t," he said. "You don’t owe me any explanations. Look around this village. There’s a lot of folks here who are running from something. Your business is your business. But I think you’re in need of some help. I’ve helped your friend; how can I help you two?" 

"We couldn’t ask you to do anything else," Tasha said, gesturing to her arm. 

Kristjan shook his head. 

"Pfft, I made a call. Jón owed me a favor," he said. "If you’re looking to avoid the towns, I have a fishing boat. It's not big but it’s seaworthy. I could take you to Reykjavik. Then? Up to you to get onto a plane." 

Patterson and Tasha exchanged another look. 

"It won’t smell good," Kristjan said, "but I can get you there without anyone noticing. That is, if that’s what you need." 

"A fishing boat?" Tasha asked. 

"My _Margrét_," he confirmed. 

Patterson cocked an eyebrow. 

"The _Margrét_?" 

Kristjan nodded. 

"Named after my late wife." 

The two women exchanged another look and Tasha gave a half shrug with her good shoulder. 

"You’re sure?" Patterson asked. Kristjan didn’t respond. Patterson finally nodded. "Okay." 

*** 

The _Margrét _was waiting at the small dock shortly after 3 a.m. The sun had finally set for the day, and Kristjan was on board waiting. He’d assured them that it was best to leave when it was finally dark so Tasha and Patterson had gone out into the village and picked up a few essentials including a bottle of aspirin for Tasha’s broken ribs and a burner phone. Patterson had tried Weller and Jane’s numbers from memory but only landed in voicemail. She’d turned the phone off and jammed it into the pocket of her coat. She didn’t know if she’d need it again or when she might find someplace to charge it. 

"Girls ready?" Kristjan asked as they approached. He held out a hand to Tasha and helped her board the small boat. "It’s not much but she floats. Watch your step." 

Patterson boarded behind Tasha and looked around. There was a small cabin and a door in the deck that she assumed opened to the boat’s hold. Kristjan saw her appraising gaze and jabbed a thumb towards the cabin. 

"Seating in the cabin. Blankets too," he explained. "It gets cold." 

Tasha peered inside the cabin and spotted the single bench running along the wall. A heavy wool blanket was at one end. She carefully limped towards the bench and sat down. 

"No seat belts, I guess," she said as she looked around. 

Kristjan gave another hearty laugh. 

"City girl, aren’t you?" 

Tasha shook her head and frowned slightly. 

"I guess," she said and looked at Patterson who nodded at her. "Yeah." 

Patterson sat down next to Tasha while Kristjan went to the lines that held the boat to the dock and cast off. Within moments, they were moving through the water, cold air cutting into the cabin. 

Tasha shivered slightly and grabbed for the blanket with her good hand. She struggled to put it around her shoulders without much success. She let out a frustrated sigh and let the blanket drop into her lap. 

"Let me," Patterson murmured as she reached over Tasha for the blanket. She shook it out in front of them and then draped it over the other woman’s shoulders, drawing it tight around her. Her breath was visible in front of her and she couldn’t help but notice the way that Tasha’s teeth chattered slightly. She moved closer to her friend and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "Damn it’s cold out." 

"Hmm," Tasha replied, drawing her legs up so her heels were resting on the edge of the bench. "At least it’s a short trip." She hesitated and then looked over at Patterson. "What next?" 

The scientist bit her lower lip and thought about this for a minute. She patted the small black bag of króna Kristjan had handed her in the shop. 

"We’ll get a plane to Canada, I guess," she said. "After that... I don’t really know. My brain can’t get past the ‘oh my god is it cold’ thought that keeps rattling around up there." 

Tasha gave the first real laugh Patterson had heard from her since before the cabin was blown to bits, and it made her smile. 

"What’s in Canada?" Tasha asked, snuggling a little closer to Patterson in an effort to steal some of her body heat 

Patterson shrugged. 

"No idea. Just a place to regroup, maybe get someone else to look at your shoulder?" she suggested and hesitated. Patterson lowered her voice to a near whisper. "Are you remembering anything?" 

Tasha shook her head. 

"Nothing?" 

Another shake of her head. 

"Only what you’ve told me," she admitted. "It’s all... blank. Nothing." 

Patterson hmmed and glanced out the cabin’s window. The boat was cutting through the darkness and she wondered fleetingly how Kristjan could see where they were going. He’d assured them that Reykjavik wasn’t far, but she couldn’t see any lights. It had to still be far. 

"We’re FBI?" Tasha asked quietly. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want Kristjan to hear her. "Like guns and badges and bad guys?" 

Patterson snorted a short laugh. She’d never heard Tasha talk about their jobs with such excitement in her voice before. She sounded a bit like a child, a spark of wonder in her voice. 

"Something like that." 

"Am I married? Kids?" 

"Not married; no kids." 

Tasha frowned slightly. 

"Didn’t think so." 

"Boyfriend?" 

Patterson shook her head. 

"Not that I know of." 

"Hmm," Tasha replied. It felt like she knew that, but she didn’t know why. At the same time, she didn’t feel like she was single. "Do I have a girlfriend then?" 

Patterson shook her head again. 

"No, not that I know of." 

"Pets?" 

Another head shake. 

"So just a job?" Tasha asked, disappointment in her voice. 

"And friends," Patterson supplied. "We’re best friends. And there’s Jane and Reade and Kurt." 

"But they’re missing," Tasha said and huffed out a deep frustrated sigh. "I wish I could remember you guys." 

Patterson frowned slightly. 

"You will," she assured her. "But first we need to get out of Iceland. Then maybe you’ll start remembering." 

The lights of Reykjavik glistened off the water ahead and Patterson guessed they were about five minutes from the dock. They could be on a plane within an hour, and her stomach felt like lead. She prayed their fake passports would hold up to airport security. At the same time, she wondered what they’d do next. Leaving Iceland felt right and wrong. They were leaving their friends behind. She tightened her grip around Tasha. She wasn’t leaving _all_ of her friends behind. Tasha was still with her, even if she didn’t know her own name. 


	7. Light at the End of the Tunnel

"So, this tunnel comes out somewhere, right?" Reade asked after they’d taken what seemed like their millionth turn. "I mean, it’s gotta, right? We’re not just wandering in circles?" 

Weller didn’t reply. They’d been walking for at least 40 minutes and the smugglers’ tunnel seemed to stretch on forever. He was starting to wonder where the tunnel would lead them or if they'd even come across an intersecting tunnel, but didn't want to voice his concerns. They had to come upon something soon. After all, what's the point of a tunnel if it doesn't lead anywhere? 

He cleared his throat. 

"Think everyone’s okay?" he asked, ignoring Reade's series of questions. "Tasha, Patterson, Jane, I mean." 

Reade gave a small shrug. He’d been wondering the same thing. There was a sharp pang in his heart every time he thought that maybe Patterson and Tasha hadn’t made it into the tunnel. If he'd lost them, _lost Tasha_, he wasn't sure what he'd do. 

"I wanna think they're okay," he said finally, his eyes glued on the path ahead of them. "I think if they made it underground, the two of them will find their way out and… I dunno. Run, I guess." 

The tunnel curved around to the left and Reade huffed a sigh as they followed it. 

"Feels like this goes on forever," he said. 

"Maybe not forever," Weller replied. "Look." 

The tunnel continued on, but there was a break up ahead where it looked like another tunnel cut through. An intersection. The first one they’d come upon since they'd started walking. 

"Think it’s a way out?" Reade asked, looking to Weller. 

"One way to find out." 

*** 

The intersection had led to a way out. Sort of. The pair stood at a dead end facing a ladder bolted to the wall and leading up to a steel hatch above them. They stood listening beneath the hatch and finally Weller started up the ladder 

"Shouldn’t we, I dunno, be sure what we're climbing into?" Reade asked, gesturing to the door in the ceiling. "We have no idea what's up there." 

Kurt stopped climbing and turned on the step so he could look at Reade. 

"Did you see any signs? A map?" he asked in sarcastic exasperation. "The way I see it, the only way we’re finding out what’s up there is we go up. We’re looking for an exit. _This_ is an exit." 

Reade didn't reply. Weller was right, of course. They'd spent the last hour looking for a way out of the tunnel and this looked like an exit. 

"I’m going up," Weller continued. "Stay here. I’ll call you if it’s safe." 

Kurt continued up the final three steps. He pressed his hands against the cold steel of the hatch and lifted slowly, only opening the door enough so he could listen. When he was greeted with silence, he pushed harder on the hatch and stuck his head up and looked around. Satisfied he was alone, he pushed the hatch open fully and pulled himself up and out. 

It was another smugglers' shack, nearly identical to the one the team had been hiding in before the explosion. Weller looked around and peeked out the cabin’s windows. No one was around but he still grabbed for his handgun before opening the shack’s door and slowly walking the perimeter. He returned to the hatch door and crouched down to speak to Reade. 

"Come on," he said in a low voice. He hadn’t seen anyone but didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. "Let’s go." 

As Reade began climbing the steps, Weller returned to one of the windows. He studied the surroundings. The sky was beginning to take on a dusty, end of day color and he grabbed for his phone and looked at the time. They’d been wandering the tunnel for over an hour but it was much later than he first thought. 

"How long were we out?" Reade asked as he appeared behind him and saw the setting sun. 

"Long enough," Weller replied as he turned off his phone and turned back to face Reade. "Sunset is in about an hour." 

"So, what do we do?" 

Weller cast another glance out of the window and then surveyed the shack. There were sparse furnishings but there were a couple of beds, a worn-out couch, and a fireplace. He sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs. 

"Well," he began as he leaned back. "I think we try to figure out where we are and then figure out how to find Jane, Tasha and Patterson." 

Reade held up his phone and held the power button to turn it back on. 

"I’ll call Zapata. You call Jane?" 

Weller snatched the phone out of Reade’s hand in one swift move. He pressed the power button again until the screen went dark. 

"What the hell, Kurt?" Reade asked in surprise when the other agent shoved the now powered off phone back into his hands. 

"Look, whoever blew up the shack, wants us dead," Weller said flatly. "My guess it’s someone at the Department of Justice since Weitz is the one who texted Patterson. And, if the shack we were in blew up, our phones would be gone. Turning that phone back on and picking up a signal would be like waving a flag over our heads. Come find us, we're still here." 

Reade sat down on the threadbare couch with a huff. 

"Alright. Fine. Now what? We just sit here?" 

Weller shook his head. 

"No. We need to find a way out of Iceland – _quietly_ – and then look for the rest of the team," he said and sighed. "I’m guessing we walked about two miles, maybe three. That means we’re either three miles closer to the airport or farther from the airport. And if we want to leave Iceland, we’re gonna hafta do it by plane." 

Reade’s face fell. Patterson had handed them all phony passports when they reconvened at the shack after the incident at the Perlan Museum. He couldn’t remember if he’d put it in his pocket or if it’d just been set on the bed next to where he’d collapsed alongside Tasha. His breath hitched and he stood up, searching the pockets of his pants and then his coat. His fingers brushed something rectangular and he pulled it out, heaving a sigh of relief as he dropped back onto the couch. 

"Jesus. Was afraid I’d lost it," he breathed. 

Weller reached into his own pocket and pulled out the passport Patterson had provided for him. He flipped it open and frowned at the identity she created for him. Chet Huston. He rolled his eyes and then shoved the document back into his coat pocket, trading it for a white envelope. Inside was a stack of króna. The original plan was to get into the Perlan Museum, find Kathy, and get out again as quickly as possible. They’d brought along the envelope of króna in case they needed to grease a few palms. Bribery was certainly not legal, especially for FBI agents, but they were passed the law now. They hadn’t needed the money before, but if he and Reade were going to leave Iceland, they were going to need as much untraceable money as possible. Of course before they could leave Iceland, they’d need to find a way to the airport. 

"We can’t walk to the airport," Weller said. He got up again and returned to the window. 

"Not calling an Uber way out here," Reade agreed. 

"The way I see it, we’ve got two options," Kurt said, not turning from the window. "We can try to hitchhike or we can borrow a car." 

"Borrow a car?" Reade asked with a raised eyebrow. "What? You just gonna stumble upon a parking lot full of cars and just ask someone if you can borrow their ride?" 

Kurt shook his head and turned back to Reade. 

"There’s a road out there," he said. "It has to go somewhere. I say we wait until dark and follow it. If we can get a ride, we take it. If we can’t... we keep walking until we have another option." 

Reade didn’t respond. He got up and went to another window squinting through it for the road Weller mentioned. Sure enough it was there. They’d have a long distance to walk and there was no guarantee they’d come upon a car or that they’d be able to catch a ride. They could easily be walking more than 30 miles to the airport if they didn’t die from exposure first. 

"What’s the other option?" 

Weller sat down again. He propped his feet up on an empty chair. 

"Stay here, freeze to death, hope someone finds us." 


	8. Three Ladies in Transit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry, guys. I took a break from this because I didn't know where I was going and then I started dabbling in a new fandom (Supergirl) and got engrossed in my new fic and I suck. Here's a new chapter for you as an apology and I promise i'm not abandoning this.

Patterson wasn't sure how she would repay Kristjan. He didn't know them or why they were desperately trying to leave Iceland, but the black bag he'd thrust into her hands contained 150,000 króna, roughly $1,200 and enough to get them both on a plane set for Montreal. She thought about the money she'd handed Weller on the plane to Iceland. The team had brought more than enough money to get them out of Iceland and wherever they needed to go next. If Weller was alive, he at least had the funds he needed to start clearing his name and maybe the team's as well. 

Tasha sat next to her on the plane. The economy seats they'd purchased were cramped and their ears rang from the engine noise droning just behind them. Patterson watched as the Latina gripped the arm of her seat with the arm not strapped to her chest and closed her eyes. 

“You okay?” she asked. 

Tasha shook her head. 

“Am I afraid to fly?” she asked, not opening her eyes but gripping the chair harder. "I feel like I'm about to die." 

Patterson shook her head but reached out for one of Tasha's hands. 

"No, you fly all the time," she said. "You'll be okay. It's just a little turbulence." 

"It doesn't feel like a little anything," Tasha replied, opening her eyes as she tried to slow her breathing. The feeling of the other woman's hand on her own had actually worked to calm her nerves slightly. She slightly released her grasp on the chair and took a long slow breath. "How long until Montreal?" 

Patterson looked at her watch and frowned. 

"It's a little more than a five-hour flight," she said. They hadn't been in the air that long and Tasha seemed genuinely afraid. It was funny, really. Patterson knew Tasha better than almost anyone else, but every minute the brunette failed to get her memory back, the less familiar she seemed to Patterson. And then she'd make a gesture like tucking her hair behind her ear and it was like Tasha had been there the whole time. 

A look of unease crossed Tasha's face again and she adjusted her grip on the chair. She wasn't sure how she'd make it through the entire flight. How did she fly "all the time" if a little turbulence had reduced her to a ball of nerves? 

The blonde shifted around in her seat so she could face Tasha. 

"Maybe you should try to sleep," Patterson suggested. "Or maybe have a drink? Might calm you down. It's been a long day; you should probably rest." 

Tasha gave a sort of half shrug. 

"I don't know if I can sleep," she admitted. "Every time we hit a bump, my stomach lurches. I don't think I can relax." 

Patterson nodded thoughtfully. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached up over Tasha's head to the air vents. She directed them down onto her friend. 

"That might help a little," she said and then reached up again and pressed the flight attendant call button. A minute later a woman in an Icelandic Air uniform appeared. "I'm sorry to bother you, is there any chance my friend can get a ginger ale? She's feeling a little airsick." 

The attendant disappeared towards the back of the plane and Tasha looked back to Patterson. 

"Ginger ale? Will that actually help?" 

Patterson shrugged. 

"Supposed to," she said, taking the can of soda as it was offered and popping the top before pulling down the seatback tray table and setting the drink down in front of the other woman. "Sip." 

Tasha took a small cautious sip of the soda. Ginger ale sounded like one of those old wives' tales, but if there was a chance it could help, she wanted to try. When the sugary drink didn't make her stomach churn, she took another tentative sip and then turned to look at her traveling companion. 

"So, what's next? What happens when land?" 

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Patterson admitted. "I hoped I'd think of something during the flight." 

*** 

When the plane touched down on the tarmac, Patterson still didn't have a plan. The only thing she could come up with was finding a public phone and calling her dad. She didn't know what he might be able to do for them, but she didn't know who else to call. They were out of money with nowhere to go. It wasn't like she was exactly full of options or ideas. 

As the plane began to taxi towards the terminal, passengers began getting up, pulling carry-on luggage down from overhead compartments. Patterson looked over at Tasha and realized she'd fallen asleep and hadn't woken up. 

She lightly touched her shoulder. 

"Tash," she said quietly. "Wake up. We're here." 

Tasha woke up with a start, her eyes flying wide and right hand immediately trying reach for the weapon that wasn't holstered to her hip. 

"Hey, hey, hey," Patterson said, grabbing her hand before she could hurt herself. "It's okay. It's me. We've landed." 

Her companion's words seemed to center her and Tasha looked around at the other passengers who were preparing to deplane. 

"Montreal?" 

"Yeah. You okay?" 

Tasha swallowed hard and licked her lips. She didn’t know why she'd reacted like that, but she wished she hadn't. The sudden movements had sent shockwaves of pain through her shoulder. 

"I gotta get off this plane," she breathed and struggled to her feet. 

Patterson reached out again, this time putting a hand on Tasha's thigh to push her back into the seat. 

"No," she said firmly. "Wait. You're all banged up, and it's not gonna make getting off the plane any easier. Just wait." 

Tasha sighed and shot Patterson a look of annoyance but sat back down. 

"Do we have a plan?" 

"Sorta? I mean, it's not a great plan or anything, but it's better than just wandering around the airport," she said. 

Tasha waited for Patterson to elaborate and when she didn't, she raised an eyebrow. 

"Well?" 

"We'll call my dad," she said. 

*** 

Jane sat in a hard plastic chair waiting for a seat to open up on a flight – any flight – that would take her from Montreal to the United States. She'd twice been promised a seat on flight. One would have taken her to Boston while another was Chicago bound. Both times, she'd been bumped by some stuffed shirt with VIP air miles. She spotted the airplane pulling up to the terminal. Icelandic Air was branded on its side and her stomach gave a slight lurch. She'd fled the country, but what if Icelandic officials had followed? As passengers began to deplane, Jane got up and went back to the gate where two airline employees were talking. 

"Excuse me," she began and waited for their attention. "I'm sorry. I've been waiting for hours now to get on a flight. I've been bumped twice. Is there any chance I'm getting on the next flight into the U.S.?" 

"Are you ticketed or flying standby?" one of the agents asked with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. 

"Standby." 

The agent shrugged slightly but pasted on a pleasant smile. 

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do. If you're flying standby, you'll just have to wait for the next available seat." 

Jane tried to be polite but she was exhausted and tired of waiting. She gave the best smile she could. 

"Well, that's just it. I've _been _waiting. For hours. I flew in from Iceland almost 6 hours ago," she said. "Should I start trying to nap or is there any chance at all I might be on a flight soon?" 

The agent stared at Jane for a beat as if trying to decide if the woman with the prominent neck tattoo was a threat and then looked down at her computer. She entered a few keystrokes. 

"There's a flight into Albany in about an hour. It looks like there are several seats available," she said. 

"Thank you," Jane replied, her smile genuine. She'd finally get out of this airport. "Thank you." 

She returned to her seat and shifted around in an attempt to get comfortable as passengers continued to flood off the newly arrived plane. 

"Okay, so I just need to find a public phone and then we'll call my dad," a familiar voice was saying, cutting through Jane's thoughts. 

She whipped her head around, searching for the speaker. It sounded just like Patterson, but it couldn't be her. Jane had seen the wreckage of the smuggler's shack. But as she searched the terminal, her eyes suddenly fell upon the scientist. Patterson was walking slowly through the terminal with her arm wrapped around someone's waist and they were having a conversation. 

Jane got up and started towards them, realizing about halfway there that the person with Patterson was Zapata. 

"Oh my god!" Jane cried as she began jogging towards them. "I can't believe it! You guys are okay. You're here!" 

Patterson heard Jane's voice and whirled around, nearly knocking Tasha over in her rush to find the tattooed woman. 

"Jane?" 

Jane pushed through throng of travelers and hugged Patterson tightly. 

"Oh my god, I didn't think I'd see you again," she said, releasing her and turning to Tasha. "I saw the shack. I thought—" 

Tasha pulled back and stepped behind Patterson as Jane tried to hug her. 

"Tasha?" Jane asked, confusion spreading over her face. 

Patterson frowned and turned around to Tasha. 

"She's a friend," she explained and then turned back to Jane. "She doesn't know who she is." 

"At all?" 

Patterson shook her head and then addressed Tasha again. 

"This is Jane," she said as if speaking to a toddler. "She works with us and she's a friend. I think we can work together to get home." 

*** 

In the hours that Jane had spent in the terminal, she'd managed to scope out one of the very few places that didn't seem to be covered by a security camera. It would only be a matter of time before someone came looking for them, and when their bodies weren't found in the wreckage of the smuggler's shack, the airports would be thoroughly searched. She helped Tasha sit in one of the chairs and then sat down opposite her. 

"How did you guys even get out of there?" she asked. "I saw the shack blow up." 

Patterson still wasn't entirely sure how Tasha had gotten out and the Latina wouldn't be much help answering that question, at least not until her memory started to come back. Instead, she launched into the story about how she'd gotten a text from Weitz only seconds before the explosion and they'd all tried to follow Weller and Reade into the tunnels. 

"The tunnel collapsed," she explained. "I have no idea where the guys are." 

Jane took this in. Her husband was still missing, but if Patterson and Tasha had been able to make it out, she was confident that Reade and Kurt would make it out as well. 

"Anyway, we started walking and we found this guy who helped us," Patterson continued. "He got a doctor for Tasha's arm and leg and took us on his boat so we could get to the airport. He even paid our airfare." 

Jane raised an eyebrow and looked at Patterson doubtfully. 

"And you trusted him? He just gave you a bunch of money?" 

She nodded. 

"We didn't really have a lot of choices," she said. "Tasha was in really bad shape." 

"Kristjan," Tasha said, speaking for the first time since they'd stumbled upon Jane. 

"Kristjan?" Jane asked, blinking in surprise. "That's crazy. The guy who gave me a ride into Hlidar was named Kristjan." 

"Yeah, he mentioned he'd picked up a Joan Boe earlier," Patterson grinned. "I just didn't expect to run into you."

"He was nice," Jane admitted. "I gave him some money from the stash we brought from New York. Weller and I split it just in case we got split up." 

Patterson froze. 

"Wait," she said. "You have money? Our money?" 

"About half of what we brought," Jane replied. "A little less. I bought a plane ticket. And coffee." 

"How much did you give him?" she asked, putting the puzzle together. 

Jane stopped to think, mentally converting the króna into dollars. 

"Maybe $1,200," she said. "I hoped it would keep him quiet. I was pretty sketchy." 

Tasha and Patterson exchanged a smile. The man who'd helped them get out of Iceland had given them the money Jane had given him for helping.

"I think we have a guardian angel," Patterson said. "How much cash do you have left?" 

Jane pulled an enveloped from the inside pocket of her jacket and flipped through it stealthily before slipping it back where she'd taken it from. 

"About $10,000," she said. 

Patterson sat back in her chair and blew out a breath. The game had just changed. 


	9. A Flash of Recognition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I suck so hardcore. I'm over in the Supergirl fandom, writing trash about Lena Luthor and Alex Danvers and have neglected you all so much. A million and one apologies. I've got a few chapters for you over the next few days.

They couldn't travel together, especially not into the United States. The government wanted them dead and as soon as they realized three of the agents were very much alive, they'd come looking for them. Jane, Patterson, and Tasha couldn't board a plane together. They shouldn't even be seen talking to each other. They shouldn't be seen at all, but as Jane had pointed out, it would be nearly impossible to get back into the United States without passing through some kind of security. With luck, by the time anyone realized they were all alive and had re-entered the country, they'd been long gone.

Even though they'd just found each other, it had been Jane’s idea to split up again. With her injuries and missing memory, however, Tasha couldn't travel alone, and since she hadn't warmed to Jane, she stayed by Patterson's side. The trio split their remaining cash among them and purchased plane tickets. Jane was finally called for her standby seat on the flight to Albany, and Patterson and Tasha opted to wait for the next flight to Syracuse, New York scheduled for an hour later. Once the trio was all back in the U.S., they'd move on to the second part of their plan.

Before that could happen, though, Patterson had a few tasks. At the top of her to-do list? Ditching the burner phone she'd picked up in Iceland. Jane's argument that it'd be easy to track the phone since she'd made calls to two members of the team was compelling. She'd immediately taken the phone from her pocket and stomped on it, breaking it into dozens of pieces and then deposited the fragments into a trashcan.

Patterson and Tasha made their way to an airport newsstand. It looked as if it hadn't been restocked in a while, but Patterson found a cheap prepaid phone hiding among a ragtag collection of earbuds and phone chargers. The $66 CAD purchase price was worth it, and the pair took the phone, two bottles of water, a copy of the _New York Times_, and a pack of gum to a pair of seats near the terminal for the flight out of the country.

She tore through the plastic packaging and turned the phone on. It had a half charge. More than enough to make a call. Patterson dialed a number from memory and listened to it ring.

***

Cazenovia was only 30 minutes outside of Syracuse, and Patterson and Tasha sat in a small diner on the main drag in the small town of less than 3,000 residents. Tasha stared at her coffee cup, turning it back and forth anxiously and creating a small puddle on the table. They'd only been waiting at the diner for about 10 minutes but Patterson was worried about Tasha. She'd drawn inside of herself during the flight from Montreal to Syracuse and had spoken little since landing.

"Are you okay, Tash?" she asked after coffee sloshed over the rim of the other woman's mug for the sixth time. "Your arm isn't hurting, is it?"

Tasha shook her head but didn't look up from her cup.

"I keep thinking I should be remembering something," she said. "Like Jane? She's memorable with all the tattoos, but there's nothing. I've never seen her before. Or at least I don't remember ever seeing her. You said she's a friend, though. I just, I don't know. I can't remember anything. Shouldn't I be starting to remember something? Anything?"

Patterson took a long swallow her own coffee and then reached for a few packets of sugar, tearing them open and adding them to her already sweetened coffee.

"If you actually have amnesia, it can last for six to nine months," she said sympathetically. "I mean, it can clear up sooner but —"

"This could be my new normal," Tasha finished. "Excelente. Eso es fantástico."

She stopped talking abruptly and stared open-mouthed at her traveling companion.

"What the hell was that? I speak another language?" she asked dumbfounded.

Patterson nodded excitedly.

"Yes! Spanish!" she cried. "You remember it?"

Tasha was shaking her head.

"I – I don't know," she admitted. "No sé. ¿Por qué debería saber español?"

"I don't speak Spanish," Patterson admitted. "You do, though. Your family is Mexican."

Tasha thought about this for a second. She narrowed her eyes as she tried to pull a memory out of the blackness that was her mind.

"I have brothers." It wasn't a question.

"Yes! You remember?"

"Maybe," Tasha replied slowly. For the first time since sitting down, she looked up at Patterson with a curious look on her face. "And something about my grandmother? Does that make sense?"

Patterson was nodding again. Her smile was so broad, she felt like it had taken over her whole face, but it didn't matter. Tasha remembered something. It wasn't anything big, but any memory itself was a big deal.

"She raised you and your brothers."

"Oh."

A bell jingled as the door to the diner opened and Patterson glanced up over Tasha's shoulder towards the front door. Her face lit up as the new arrival scanned the room and spotted them.

"Hey kiddo," Bill said as he approached the table. He grinned broadly as he reached down to wrap his daughter in a hug. "Is everything okay? Your call was a little bit vague. Tell me what's going on before you scare your old man."

He saw Tasha then and brightened further. He opened his arms wide to capture her in a similar hug, but dropped them when he noticed the confused look on his daughter's friend's face.

"Oh, um, she doesn't know who she is or remember anything," Patterson explained, sliding over in the booth so her father could sit next to her. "At all."

Tasha's mouth was open as she stared at Bill, her eyes flicking from Patterson to Bill and back to Patterson. After a minute, she closed her mouth with a click and leaned towards Patterson, her arm on the table to shield her face from the newcomer.

"Patterson!" she whispered harshly and much louder than she'd hoped to. "That's Bill Nye!"

Excitement danced in Patterson's eyes. Tasha remembered her father. Another step. If the Latina kept remembering things this quickly, she'd recover from her amnesia in no time. Six to nine months? More like six to nine hours.

"Yeah!" Patterson agreed enthusiastically. "You remember?"

Tasha nodded slowly, letting her hand fall away from her face and daring to look at Bill.

"Everyone knows Bill Nye the Science Guy," she said and held her hand out to him. "It's so nice to meet you. I'm Tasha."

Bill frowned but took her hand and shook it anyway as Patterson flopped back into the booth dejected. For a brief moment she thought that maybe Tasha remembered the dinners she had with her and her father. He'd taken them out on several occasions, and during their last dinner, Patterson had almost been certain that her dad was trying to play matchmaker between the two women. She remembered the way Tasha had blushed, and was saddened that Tasha seemingly didn't remember any of it. Tasha didn't remember their team, her, her father, or their friendship. It made her heart ache no matter how hard she tried to put on a positive face.

"We've met," Bill said gently. "You and my daughter are best friends. I thought for a while that maybe... well, it doesn't matter what I thought. I'm sorry you don't remember."

Tasha's face fell, the excitement from meeting Bill Nye faded.

"We've met," she repeated dully. "I'm sorry. I don't remember. I really wish I could."

Bill smiled pleasantly and waved a hand at her.

"Don't worry about it, Tasha," he said. "You'll remember. Amnesia is usually only temporary. It'll come back to you. You'll remember me and Patterson soon enough, but you're in really good hands with this one. She won't let anything happen to you."

Tasha nodded and returned her attention to her coffee cup. Bill and Patterson watched her turn the cup around and around on the tabletop for a minute. Bill finally sighed and leveled his daughter with a serious look.

"So, everything isn't okay."

"Dad, I —"

Bill held up a hand and silenced her.

"I don't need to know what's happening or why Tasha can't remember anything or why it looks like you haven't slept in days," he said. "You called me and here I am. Now, what can I do?"

***

Bill didn't have anything to say. No, that wasn't actually true. He had plenty to say, he just knew better than to try to put his worry into words. There was nothing he would be able to say that would change things. His daughter was so much like his wife sometimes, it was frightening. She'd dug her heels in, insisted there was no other way, and nearly begged him to make the nearly four hour drive out to Putnam County.

He opened his mouth to say something at least three times, looking in his rearview mirror each time and spotting his daughter and best friend staring out their respective windows, seemingly lost in thought. Whatever they were running from or to, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"We're almost there," he said finally.

Patterson jerked her head up; she'd started to doze in the backseat and her eyes scanned the road up ahead, looking for familiar landmarks.

"Tash," she called quietly and patted the other woman's thigh. "Hey, wake up."

Tasha woke up with a start and grabbed Patterson's wrist with so much force that the startled blonde let out a sharp cry of pain. When Tasha's eyes refocused again and she saw her hand tightly gripping her friend's wrist she immediately let it go and pulled her hand back far away from Patterson.

"I am so sorry," she whispered, shame creeping over her face.

Patterson rubbed her wrist. Tasha's grip had been impressive and, had they been standing, she was certain her friend would have flipped her onto her back. Instead, she thought a hand-sized bruise might form over her wrist.

"It's okay," Patterson lied. "I startled you. I'm sorry. We're in Putnam County. Does anything look familiar to you?"

Tasha's gaze lingered where Patterson was absently rubbing her wrist and a new wave of guilt flooded through her. Why had she reacted that way? It was the second time she'd woken up and reacted as if she was in danger. It felt like she was in a permanent state of fight or flight since waking up in the snow. She forced her attention to the window as the scenery rolled by, and she shook her head.

"I don't know. Nothing looks familiar," she said carefully. "Should it?"

Patterson sighed. She didn't know what she expected. Of course, Tasha didn't recognize anything. She didn't even recognize her.

"Wait," Tasha said suddenly. "This road. There's a left turn up here. It feels like I've been here."

"Dad, can you go left up ahead?"

"You got it, kiddo," he said and looked up in the mirror again and saw his daughter watching her friend. "Are you two going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Patterson responded carefully. "I think so."

A series of broken-down outbuildings loomed in the distance and Patterson shifted closer to Tasha so she could get a better look out the window. She tapped the glass, pointing at the structures.

"There! Dad pull off," she instructed, still leaning over Tasha.

For her part, Tasha followed Patterson's pointing finger but kept looking back at the woman who'd draped herself so casually over her own body. Her best friend. There were so many things she wished she could remember, but she genuinely liked Patterson. She just wished she could remember her. There was this nagging _thing _lingering in the back of her mind, but she just couldn't grab on to it. It felt significant and that it involved Patterson, but damned if she knew what it was.

"Is that Jane?" she asked pointing to a figure sitting in the shadows near one of the buildings.

Patterson squinted as she leaned forward and tried to make out Jane's shadowy figure. Tasha was right. Somehow Jane Doe had made it from Albany to the old Standstorm compound and was waiting for them.

Bill slowed the car and pulled to a stop, immediately dousing the headlights and killing the engine. He turned in his seat until he was facing his two passengers.

"Now what?" he asked. "What do you need from me?"

Patterson was about to speak but Tasha beat her to it. For the first time since she'd woken up in Iceland, Tasha sounded in command and almost like the agent Patterson had known and worked with for years.

"Yeah," she said. "Go home. If anyone comes asking about us, you haven't heard from us in days. You visited a friend in upstate New York, but the last you heard from your daughter and her friends, we were heading overseas. You haven't seen us."

She opened the car door and slowly extracted herself from the backseat, stretching her injured leg slightly but holding her arm ever closer to her side. The dull ache in her ribs was more of a roar and her shoulder and arm felt like they'd been dipped in kerosene. Patterson followed her out of the car and started around towards the driver's side. Bill met her halfway and hugged her tightly.

"I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but be careful," he whispered as he held her. "And take care of Tasha. You're all she has right now. Eventually, she'll remember you and her feelings for you."

Patterson pulled away and frowned at her father.

"Dad. What are you even talking about?"

Bill looked at her in fake surprise.

"It doesn't matter, but it'll happen," he said. "I know."

He turned to face Tasha. Ordinarily he'd hug her, but she didn't know him. He smiled and gave her a small wave.

"Be careful," he repeated and watched as the two women headed off to meet their teammate. He reluctantly returned to the car and started the engine and threw the vehicle into a slow k-turn. As he drove away, he cast a final longing glance into the rearview mirror. "Take care of my girls, Jane."


	10. On the Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if you can tell, but I really hate writing for Weller and Reade. I'm trying - very, very hard - to get us to where we all want us to be. And it's coming. I've sketched out the next five chapters. I'll do my very best, guys.

The Iceland Air flight taxied to its gate in Chicago, and Weller cast a glance out the window for signs that federal investigators or even members of the Chicago PD were waiting for them. The tarmac looked like business as usual and the nervous energy that had filled him throughout the flight released with a long exhalation.

"Now what?" Reade asked, also observing the lack of a heavy police presence. "I mean, no, that's exactly what I mean. Now what?"

Weller shook his head, finally looking away from the window.

"I wanna try to find Jane and the others," he said. "I know it's risky and we don't even know if she's okay but I have to try."

Reade looked up the aisle as passengers began to climb out of their seats to pull carry-on luggage from the overhead compartments. The two agents were traveling without luggage. Anything they'd brought with them was long gone. It was the fake passports in their pockets, the money in Weller's wallet, and their two cell phones both of which had remained off since exiting the tunnel in Iceland. As soon as they turned them on, they'd be back on the grid. If the Department of Justice had any suspicions the agents were still alive, turning their phones back on would be like waving a red flag in their face, instantly putting themselves back on the radar.

"She's not going to have her phone on," he said calmly. "You know that. Jane's too smart for that. She turns that phone back on and she might as well just walk into the nearest FBI field office."

Weller grumbled something that might have been an agreement, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, I need to try at least," he replied. "She's my wife and a member of this team. And what about Tasha and Patterson? We don't even know if they're alive."

Reade was shaking his head.

"If they are, they're in the same boat we are," he said. "Listen, Kurt, I want to find Tasha just as badly as you wanna find Jane, but we can't just go running around looking for them. They could be anywhere in the world. Literally anywhere."

"I know. I still need to try," Weller said.

***

Weller took the room key from the motel's front desk manager with confusion on his face. As he headed back out of the small lobby to find their room in the dingy motel, he looked at Reade.

"What'd he mean by that? 'You boys have fun'?" he asked.

Reade chuckled slightly as they climbed the stairs to the second level.

"Two guys checking into a dump like this in the middle of the day with no luggage," he said. "You do the math, Kurt."

Weller didn't reply immediately and thought about this. He suddenly turned five shades of red as he figured it out. He pointed over his shoulder back towards the front desk.

"You mean he thought...? I'm not. We're not," he stammered.

Reade rolled his eyes, coming to a stop outside of the room they'd been directed to. He gestured towards the door lock and waited for Kurt to swipe the keycard.

"Who cares?" he replied. "I just want to shower and catch some sleep, man."

Weller unlocked the door and Reade pushed past him into the darkened space. He watched his friend go and then looked back in the direction of the front desk again.

"Are you coming, lover?" Reade teased from somewhere inside the room.

Kurt huffed and balled his hands into fists.

"I have a wife!" he yelled as he followed Reade into the room and shut the door behind him.

Reade was sitting on the edge of one of the double beds and shook his head with a frown.

"Who cares?" he repeated. "I think we have bigger things to worry about than some guy at the front desk thinking we're up here gettin' nasty. So, what's the plan?"

Kurt sat down on the bed opposite from Reade.

"Sleep sounds like a good idea," he said, trying to remember the last time he'd actually slept. The interrupted 20 minutes or so he'd managed on the plane didn't count. "And I still wanna see if we can find Patterson or Tasha or Jane. I'd feel better if I knew they were okay."

Reade stretched a bit and fell backwards onto the bed.

"This is where I'm gonna be for a while," he said. "Eyes closed, deep breaths."

"Don't snore," Weller warned.

"I don't snore."

"We'll see," Weller said and got back up. He pulled back the curtain at the room's only window and squinted across the busy four-lane street. "I'm gonna take a walk to that gas station over there and see if I can get a couple burners. Try calling Patterson."

Reade waved a hand in the air, not opening his eyes.

"Get snacks," he said. "None of that beef jerky shit you like either."

***

Weller wondered if it was suspicious that he'd bought four prepaid phones along with several bags of snacks that he was sure Reade would roll his eyes at. Mixed in with the packages of peanuts, cans of Red Bull, and bottles of water was a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter, a can of Pringles, a box of granola bars, the phones, and yes, one package of beef jerky.

He keyed into the motel room and heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. Weller dumped the bags from the store on his bed and dug out one of the phones. He tore at the plastic packaging and finally freed the phone and its charger from the ridiculous amount of thick plastic before plugging it into a nearby outlet to charge.

"It smells like jerky out here," Reade said, coming out of the bathroom, wiping his face with a towel.

Weller was leaned back on his bed, munching happily away at his snack.

"There's other things, too," he said, taking another bite. "Picked up a couple phones, drinks, food. There's a Walmart down the street, too. I thought we could grab some clothes, maybe a backpack or something, later on."

Reade nodded and dropped down onto the bed next to Kurt. He sorted through the pile of snacks and grabbed a package of peanuts.

"You call anyone yet?" he asked, tearing the package open and pouring out a handful of salted nuts.

"No," Weller said. "I didn't know who to try."

Reade chewed his peanuts thoughtfully.

"Know who you should try? Patterson's dad."

Weller choked on his jerky.

"Bill Nye? I couldn't."

Reade smiled, recalling how hard Kurt had fanboy-ed over Patterson's dad. He shrugged.

"If Patterson reached out to anyone, it was probably him."

Kurt stared at Reade for a minute as if trying to decide if he was serious or not.

"You want me to call Bill Nye the Science Guy?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

Weller swallowed the rest of his jerky before getting up and retrieving the phone from where it was charging next to the television. He punched the number in from memory.

"You memorized Patterson's dad's phone number?" Reade asked. He shook his head and took another handful of peanuts. "Fanboy."

Weller was about to reply when the phone was answered. He shot his friend a dirty look and turned away from him.

"Um, hi, Sir. This is Kurt Weller; I work with —"

He paused to listen.

"You did? And they're —"

Another pause.

"What about Jane?"

"Sir, that’s great news. Thank you. I will. Thanks again."

He disconnected the phone and immediately powered it off. That was the only call this burner would make.

"He picked up Patterson and Tasha at a diner outside of Syracuse," he told Reade as he dropped the phone on the floor and stomped down hard on it. "He didn't say where he took them but said Patterson had him take them to meet Jane at 'her family's place'."

"Putnam County," Reade supplied, quickly piecing it together. "They went to the Sandstorm compound."

Weller nodded and began gathering up the fragments of the broken phone from the carpet. He dropped them into a trash can and then sat down heavily on the bed.

"Bill said he didn't think they were staying there, and Tasha told him to tell anyone who called asking if he'd seen them that he hadn't," he continued. "They're running, but they're all alive."

He ran a hand over his face as the weight of the last few words hit him. His wife and friends were still alive. The entire team had made it out of Iceland. Now it was time for them to all fight to clear their names and make sure Madeline Burke was held accountable. He swallowed hard.

"What's next?" Reade asked for what felt like the millionth time.

Weller looked up, letting his hand fall back into his lap.

"Now? I'm gonna shower, head over and pick up a change of clothes, and then I'm gonna sleep," he said, exhaustion finally creeping into his voice. "If I know Patterson, she's gonna go looking for Kathy. So, if we wanna find Patterson and the rest of the team, that's where we start. Kathy."


	11. The Reflex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apology tour of rapid-fire chapters is coming to an end, guys. It'll be a few days before the next drop, but I've figured out a writing schedule that doesn't require me to completely drop a fic in favor of another. Enjoy.

There was a surprising amount of living space still accessible in the Sandstorm compound. The FBI had raided at least twice, and, if the graffiti on some of the walls was an indicator, it'd been discovered by some local teenagers, but nevertheless, the buildings that served as a sort of barracks were still mostly usable. Jane left Tasha and Patterson to investigate the bunks while she ventured further into the compound in search of the crates full of MREs that were once stored in near a makeshift mess hall.

"How long are we staying here?" Tasha asked as she pushed an overturned mattress back onto its bunk.

Patterson shook her head as she opened up a footlocker at the end of one of the beds and discovered a pile of military-style blankets. She tossed one to Tasha and set two others on the bed.

"Hopefully not long," she said. "I've got a friend in Boston who can probably help us track down Kathy. Once we can get to her, maybe we've got a shot of clearing everything back up."

Tasha dropped onto the bed that she decided she'd claim as her own and nodded.

"Your dad," she began carefully. "You don't think we put him danger or got him into trouble by calling, do you? He seems nice. I liked him."

Patterson beamed and sat down on the bed opposite her friend.

"Dad's the best," she said. "He really likes you. We used to go to dinner with him a lot."

"Really?" Tasha asked and shook her head sadly. "I don't remember at all. We went a lot?"

Patterson shrugged.

"I mean, yeah. Whenever he was in town."

Tasha thought about this for a minute. She bit her lower lip and looked away. Guilt flooded through her. It wasn't her fault that she couldn’t remember Patterson or Jane or that Bill Nye was Patterson's dad, but she couldn't help but feel awful that he and Patterson had seemingly been important in her life and now they were just strangers.

"So, you and me, we hung out a lot then."

"Yeah," Patterson said.

"What did we do? I know we work together but we hung out? We kind of stuff did we do? What do I like to do?"

Patterson blew out a long breath and leaned backwards a bit on the bunk. That was a big question. They did almost everything together. They were best friends.

"Well, we spent a lot of time working, but we got takeout a lot. Drinks, game nights, umm... you took me to this paint-your-own-pottery class once. It didn't end so well for me. I dunno. We hung out. Watched TV, drank wine, just hung out. I keep saying that but that's kinda what we do."

"Were we dating?"

Patterson choked on air and had to take a minute to collect herself. Her father had been 'shipping the two of them almost since she first introduced him to Tasha, and he knew that she had feelings for the Latina. She'd spent a lot of time trying to pretend those feelings didn't exist and that she and Tasha were just friends and nothing more. Tasha encouraged her to go on that date with Jack, and she'd dutifully gone, and because Tasha was gone and she didn't know where she was or if she was okay or if she'd ever see her again, she'd had that one night with Lincoln which she instantly regretted. And then she watched Tasha go after Reade, only to break up his engagement and then reject him. Listening to her go on and on about Reade had almost killed her, but like a good friend trying to get over her dreaded straight girl crush, she'd encouraged her. More than anything, Patterson had wanted to date Tasha but no, they weren't dating. She'd never even told Tasha how she felt about her.

"No," Patterson said more sharply than she intended.

Tasha jerked backwards as if she had been slapped.

"Sorry," she said apologetically. "I didn't mean to... I mean, it sounded like... I'm sorry."

Patterson was shaking her head and frowning.

"No, I'm sorry. It was just a question," she said with a sigh and paused for a long moment before deciding to just throw her hand on the table and push all her chips in. What difference did it make now? "It's just a sore subject."

Tasha arched an eyebrow and tucked a stray hand of hair behind her ear. She eyed Patterson curiously.

The hardness that had overtaken the blonde's face melted away almost as quickly as it'd appeared. That simple familiar gesture from Tasha was enough to make her forget that Tasha didn't remember anything from her life prior to waking up in the snow in Iceland with a piece of her collarbone poking through her skin.

She exhaled loudly and looked down at her fingers, anywhere but at Tasha.

"I've had a crush on you for a really long time," she admitted. "I like you a lot but you don't feel the same way. It's okay. I just, it's hard because you like Reade, and I never told you because you seemed so excited about him."

"Oh."

Tasha didn't really know what to say about that. She couldn't remember Reade let alone being excited about him. But then again, she couldn't remember Patterson either. There was something comforting, however, about the idea of hanging out with Patterson and maybe dating her. It had to be just because they spent so much time together. From the way the other woman talked, it sounded like they'd spent nearly all of their time together. There would be worse things than dating the blonde. 

"Mexican-style chicken stew for the win," Jane said, entering the room with a crate full of MREs. She tossed one to Patterson who immediately groaned. "What?"

The scientist shook her head but smiled.

"Nothing, it's just when we were kidnapped that time, that's all we had. Mexican-style chicken stew. Just brought back the memory," she explained, setting the ready-to-eat meal beside her on the bunk.

"Venezuela," Tasha said absently, taking the MRE from Jane.

The other two women looked at each other in surprise before turning their attention back to Tasha.

"You remember Venezuela?" Jane asked, dropping the crate on the floor in front of an unoccupied bunk.

Tasha shook her head slowly.

"I don't know," she said. "Maybe? When Patterson said Mexican-style chicken stew, it just popped in there. I don't know."

Patterson was up from her bunk quickly and wrapped Tasha in a giant hug.

"Tash, that's amazing," she said. "You're remembering stuff. That's huge."

"It doesn't feel huge."

Jane sat down on the bunk next to Tasha.

"It's huge," she agreed. "Trust me on that one."

"Okay," Tasha said with doubt in her voice. "I guess it's huge. Progress, right?"

"Progress," Patterson agreed. "Definitely."

***

The bunks were not comfortable. The mattresses smelled slightly musty, and Patterson was trying very hard to not think about what might have caused the staining on the empty bunk above Jane. Instead she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Aside from the plane, none of them had slept in days, and while she argued they needed to start trying to track down Kathy and clearing their names, Patterson was having a hard time thinking straight. Jane was right. They needed to sleep or it wouldn't matter what plan they came up with. They'd been too tired to implement it.

Her brain wouldn't shut down and Patterson rolled over again and watched Tasha sleeping just feet away. The other woman was curled up carefully onto her left side, her right arm still strapped tightly against her body, and Patterson couldn't help but wonder how they would be able to continue on with her. Tasha wouldn't admit it, but traveling had taken way more out of her than it had everyone else. She'd been the first to fall asleep, and Patterson knew her ribs and arm were killing her. She was certain her knee wasn't as good as she claimed either. Jón had popped it back into socket, but it was probably still swollen and sore. Patterson wouldn't abandon her. She couldn't, but Tasha was going to become a liability. Her physical injuries combined with her memory loss would make clearing their names while on the run from the federal government all the more difficult.

Tasha kicked slightly in her sleep and a small groan of pain escaped her lips. She kicked again and tried to swing her stabilized right arm. She tried again and again, her movements becoming progressively more and more violent, and Patterson sprang out of bed. She crossed the distance between their bunks in an instant and knelt on the floor next to the sleeping woman.

"Tash," she called quietly. "Tash, wake up. You're having a dream."

Taha kicked out again, and Patterson skidded backwards to avoid getting kicked in the face. She grabbed the leg and held it down against the mattress.

"Tasha!" she called more loudly. "Stop!"

"What's going on?" Jane mumbled as Patterson's shouts woke her. She blinked sleep out of her eyes and saw Patterson trying to hold Tasha down. "Jesus! Zapata, let her go!"

Jane gripped Tasha's wrist and tried to force the flailing woman to release the grip she had on Patterson's throat.

"Zapata!" she yelled and squeeze the wrist tighter, not caring that it was the arm that had been strapped to the woman's body. "Let go!"

Patterson slapped at Tasha's body in a feeble attempt to wake her up. She didn't know how it happened. In one minute, Tasha was kicking and attempting to swing her arm, and in the next she'd grasped her by the throat and was squeezing, cutting off her windpipe.

"Tash," she gasped desperately. She pulled her right hand into a tight fist and brought it back. "Sorry!" she croaked and punched her friend as hard as she could in the arm.

Taha's eyes flew open and she looked wildly from Jane to Patterson. She realized her grip on Patterson's throat and released it immediately, her good hand going protectively to her injured arm where she'd just been punched as Jane released her grip on her wrist.

Patterson fell backwards and brought both hands to her throat. She rubbed the reddened skin and felt tears spring involuntarily to her eyes as oxygen rushed back into her lungs.

"What the hell was that?" Jane cried, dropping onto the floor next to Patterson and checking her neck for swelling. "What happened?"

"I am so sorry, Patterson," Tasha replied. "I don't know what happened. I was sleeping and then... I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Patterson groped blindly for the carton of water Jane had handed out earlier. She tore the container open and gulped at it breathlessly. When she got her breathing under control again and her heart stopped racing, she took a less greedy swallow and shook her head.

"I couldn't sleep and Tasha started kicking and swinging with her bad arm," she explained. "I tried to stop her so she wouldn't hurt herself."

"Jesus," Jane breathed. "What were you dreaming?"

Tasha shook her head, her eyes wide.

"I – I don't know," she said. "I don't know what happened."

Jane tossed a carton of water to Tasha and tore open her own ration of emergency water.

"Is everyone okay?" she asked after a moment of silence.

Patterson nodded slowly. She'd probably have a bruise on her throat in the morning, but she was okay. Tasha was strong, but she was grateful the agent had been asleep when attacking her. If she'd been awake, Patterson feared her grip might have been stronger.

"Was that a reflex?" she asked, looking at Jane. "I mean, you had your memory wiped. Is this what happened to you?"

Jane considered this for a moment and took a swallow of her water.

"I had memory flashes," she said carefully. "Small fragments just came back to me like how Zapata remembered Venezuela. There was a lot of muscle memory. Like I could shoot just about any gun you handed me. Zapata's a fighter. Maybe it's coming out as muscle memory. You grabbed her and her body thought she was being attacked so she fought back."

"I am sorry," Tasha repeated. "I didn't..."

"I know," Patterson said. "I know you didn't."

She got to her feet and went to sit next to Tasha. Patterson gingerly put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed lightly.

"It's okay," she assured her. "It hurts. I mean, I won't lie, you have a fucking strong grip, but it's okay. I know you didn't mean it. I'm not mad at you. I'll be more careful."

Taha shook her head miserably and looked at Jane.

"Maybe you guys should go to Boston without me," she said. "I'm just gonna slow you down and I don't wanna hurt you guys."

"I'm not leaving you," Patterson said decisively. "That's not an option. You're my best friend. I'm here and we'll work through this."

"You sure?" Tasha asked, finally turning to look at Patterson.

"Yeah."

Jane frowned slightly.

"Maybe we should talk about this," she said carefully. "No offense, Zapata, but is this really the best time to be trying to travel under the radar to Boston with someone who's injured, doesn't have her memory, and is reacting like that when someone touches her?"

Patterson turned her head slowly to look at Jane. She stared at her for a minute.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, her tone daring Jane to actually say the words.

"Nothing," Jane replied, putting up a hand in a sign of surrender. "Maybe it would be better, though, if Tasha stayed somewhere to heal and work on getting her memory back —"

"Oh, so your memory didn't start coming back when you were in the field?" Patterson snapped. "Am I remembering things differently?"

"Okay, you're right. I'm sorry," Jane replied with a sigh. She scrambled up from the floor and sat back down on her bed. "Let's just go back to sleep. We can figure it all out in the morning."

Patterson went to her own bed and stretched out, pulling the blanket up over herself.

"I'm not leaving her," she insisted again. "I'm not leaving you, Tash."


	12. 'Til Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been forever, guys, I know. I'm sorry. My life sorta fell apart at the end of the year and I really struggled to recover. Nevertheless, I'm here, I'm apologetic as hell, and I have a chapter. More importantly, I have a roadmap for the next few chapters so those may come in the next few weeks. 
> 
> This chapter feels a little clumsy to me. I wrote the first half a few months ago and the second half yesterday and today. It just feels uneven and rushed to me but I don't know what else to do with it. Apologies in advance.

When Patterson woke in the morning, she wasn't surprised that it was just her and Tasha in the bunker. The bed Jane occupied the previous evening was now empty, the blankets neatly folded and left on top of the footlocker. A torn piece of notebook paper lay on the vacant bunk. Patterson stared at it for a moment, a mixture of disbelief, resignation, and anger mixing in her head. She didn't need to read the note to know what it said: Jane had left them. 

She understood why Jane would leave – their circumstances were dire, and Tasha was an unknown commodity at the moment. After her sleep-fueled attack, there was no telling what she was likely to do next. At the same time, Patterson was furious that Jane would abandon them. Through all the days and weeks and months when Jane didn't know the first thing about herself, the team had stood by her. Well, mostly. It hadn't always been easy, of course, but they hadn't abandoned her. Not the way that Jane was abandoning them now. 

Patterson slid off her bunk and snatched up the note. She scanned it quickly before balling it up in her fist. Jane was gone. She was going to try to find Kurt. 

At least that's what she'd written in her note. She was going to try to find Weller. Patterson knew what she hadn't needed to write: Jane didn't trust Tasha. 

Whatever. It didn't matter, Patterson decided as she dropped back onto her bunk and looked over to where Tasha was still asleep. As soon as the Latina woke up, they'd leave for Boston. She still had the cash Jane had split with them in Montreal. They could easily make it to Boston and start searching for Kathy. 

*** 

Tasha didn't say much on the bus ride from New York to Boston. Her eyes stayed fixed on the passing scenery, tracking each billboard and traffic jam as they lumbered by. Next to her, Patterson studied a copy of the _New York Times_. They'd been on the bus for nearly three hours, just passing a sign announcing their arrival in Worcester, when Tasha finally glanced over at her traveling companion. She bit her bottom lip and considered her words. 

"Hey, Patterson," she began softly. 

Patterson jolted away from her newspaper. She hadn't actually been reading it, but holding it and staring at the black and white print had given her something to do and allowed her mind to shut off for at least a few minutes. She'd started out by scanning for mentions of wanted FBI agents and mentions of any of their names, but when she came up empty, she just kept flipping pages and staring at the words. 

"What's wrong?" she asked. 

Tasha shook her head. 

"Nothing's wrong, I was just thinking. Trying to remember something. _Anything_." 

"Did you? Remember something?" Patterson asked as she tried to temper the excitement she felt ready to bubble up. While she knew it was going to be hard to continue traveling with Tasha while the agent didn't have any memories, her optimism was mostly selfish. She desperately wanted Tasha to remember her. They were best friends, and though Patterson had long since come to terms that they would never be anything more than that, she still missed her best friend. 

"Maybe?" Tasha replied slowly. "I don't know if I'm remembering something or if I just think I'm remembering something." 

"Well, what is it? Maybe I can help," Patterson offered, folding up her newspaper and shoving it aside. 

Tasha didn't reply immediately. It didn't seem like a memory but just a fragment of something and it was gnawing at her. On one hand it didn't feel important, but on the other hand every little thing felt like it had the potential to be important. 

"Tash?" Patterson prompted. 

"It's just a name," Tasha said, shrugging. "But it's not a name you've mentioned so far so I don't think it's actually anything. Maybe I just heard someone say it and —" 

"What is it?" Patterson interrupted. 

"William," Tasha replied. "You've mentioned Kurt and Edgar and Jane and your dad, but WIlliam just keeps popping into my head and I don't know why. Do I know a William? My boss maybe?" 

Patterson broke into a huge grin. If Tasha's arm wasn't still in a sling, she would have captured her in the biggest hug in the entire world. She nodded her head rapidly and pointed at herself. Any other time she would have groaned and tried to change the subject but she felt elated. Tasha remembered her name. 

"That's me," she said with a small laugh. "William Patterson. You're one of the only people who actually knows that." 

Tasha furrowed her brow and stared at Patterson for a very, very long minute. Confusion overtook her face. 

"You?" she asked finally. "_You're_ William? But you're... you're a girl." 

Patterson laughed and nodded again. 

"You can thank my dad," she said. "I got his first name —" 

"And your mom's last name," Tasha finished excitedly. She knew this. For the first time since she woke up in a pile of rubble, Tasha was 100% certain she knew something. "A Patterson gave birth to a Patterson." 

"YES!" Patterson yelled, drawing the attention of a few nearby passengers and she immediately lowered her voice. "Yes, exactly! You remember." 

"I remember," Tasha agreed. 

*** 

The bus pulled to a stop at Beacon Street near Boston Common and Patterson surveyed the area before helping Tasha up and off the bus. It wasn't the ideal place to get off, but at the same time it was. While Boston Common was in the heart of the city, it was also a heavily traveled tourist attraction. Dozens of passengers were disembarking along with them making it easier to disappear into the crowd. If anyone was watching the stop, Patterson thought they'd be hard to spot. 

She helped Tasha manage the few bus steps and then guided her towards the center of the Commons and the frog pond where several benches were unoccupied. 

"Where are we going?" Tasha asked as she limped after her friend. "Patter—" 

Patterson spun around quickly and clamped her hand over Tasha's mouth before she could finish saying her name. She shook her head and leveled a serious look at her. 

"You can't call me that," she said sharply and looked around anxiously. When Tasha nodded her understanding, she took her hand away and started walking again towards the benches around the pond. "You can call me... Lisa or Billie but not the other thing. And not William either. It's too distinctive." 

Tasha sat down on the bench alongside Patterson and furrowed her brow. 

"Lisa?" 

Patterson waved her off. 

"It's a... it's a long story," she said. "I'll tell you about it sometime when this is all over, but right now, we need to find a place to stay, work out a plan, and then get ourselves out of this whole mess, okay?" 

"Okay," Tasha agreed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She tried to cross her legs, but the pain from her previously dislocated knee stopped her. "So, now what?" 

Patterson didn't reply immediately. She sat on the bench and scanned their surroundings, looking across the street, and trying to figure out their next move. It was getting late. She could reach out to her friend, but there was little chance of meeting up with him tonight. There best bet would be to find a place they could stay, that wouldn't care they were paying cash, and would ask no questions. It wouldn't be an easy task. Not in Boston and not near Boston Common. She supposed they could pick up the T and maybe head out towards Allston or maybe Brookline where motels would be more prevalent, the neighborhoods poorer, and the desk clerks less discerning. 

"Why don't you just use Billie normally?" Tasha asked, interrupting Patterson's thoughts. 

"What?" 

Tasha turned her gaze from the frog pond and met Patterson's eyes. 

"You only go by your last name," she said as if it should have been obvious. "Why don't you go by Billie? That could be short for all sorts of things. No one would have to know that you have your dad's name." 

Patterson shook her head. 

"What? No. I go by Patterson because that's what I go by," she said. "We've had this conversation before, Tash. I don't use Will... and you don't remember that we've talked about this hundreds of times because you don't remember. I'm sorry, Tash. I wasn't thinking. I'm just trying to figure out what to do next. We need a place to stay and we can't put down a credit card. There's not a lot of places that'll—" 

Tasha laughed. When she saw Patterson looking at her in confusion she covered her mouth to stifle it. 

"Oh, you're so cute," she said in between laughs. "C'mon, Billie-Lisa. I'm gonna show you a thing or two." 

Tasha got to her feet carefully, grabbing onto the back of the bench to steady herself. Once she was certain her leg would hold her weight, she looked in both directions and then headed in the direction of Boylston Street. When Patterson didn't immediately follow her, she turned around and put her hands impatiently on her hips.

"Are you coming?" 

*** 

Patterson stared up at the lettering on the porte cochere and shook her head. 

"Are you crazy?" she asked. "There is no way in absolute hell that this place is going to let us sit in the lobby let alone rent a room without showing a credit card. This is The Plaza!" 

Tasha turned back from the double glass doors and walked to where Patterson had stopped and was staring. She sighed. 

"I know I don't remember much, but trust me. Please," she said. "I've got this. Give me our cash." 

Patterson rolled her eyes but pulled a thick wad of cash from her pocket and handed it Tasha. 

"You've got this? Okay, Agent Double Oh Zee," she said. "Show me." 

Tasha nodded. 

"Thank you," she replied. "Now, come on and let me do the talking. Just relax and act normal. Unless this is your normal, in which case, just be cool." 

Patterson rolled her eyes again as Tasha headed back to the doors and stepped aside as a doorman opened them for her. 

"Be cool," she mumbled under her breath and hurried after Tasha. "I _am_ cool. Please." 

Tasha hesitated in the lobby for a few seconds and Patterson was about to question her, when the brunette walked purposefully, although with a slight limp, towards the check-in desk and flashed a big smile at the clerk. 

"Good evening, ladies. Checking in?" the clerk asked as he watched Tasha approach. 

Her smile grew broader as she reached the counter and casually leaned on her left elbow. 

"Good evening to you," she said sweetly. "I hope you can help us out." 

"What can I do?" 

Tasha gestured towards Patterson. 

"My friend and I are in a little bit of a jam," she said, lowering her voice so their conversation would remain between the three of them. "You see, we just got in from New York and, let me tell you, it's been a day. We had booked a room down the block at another hotel, but they lost our reservation or gave it away or whatever. They just don't have it anymore." 

The clerk nodded sympathetically. 

"Was it The Courtyard? They're always doing things like that." 

Tasha brightened. This felt familiar, like she'd done this before. She set the trap and let the desk clerk walk right into it. 

"Yes. Their guy over there, Tim or something —" 

"Jim," the clerk supplied. "He's a real douchebag. Excuse my language." 

"Your words, not mine," Tasha teased as she leaned a bit closer to the clerk. He was young and she hadn't missed that his gaze had dipped downwards several times to where her button-down shirt wasn't buttoned. It wasn't revealing but the clerk had checked her out, nonetheless. "The problem is we're traveling on a budget and they charged our card. We're maxed out which makes getting another hotel a problem." 

Another nod from the clerk. 

"That's a real problem," he agreed. 

Tasha hmmed, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and let her hand run down the opened edge of her shirt. She put on her most innocent and helpless face. 

"I don't suppose the Plaza would let a couple of girls rent a room with cash? We'd be happy to put down a deposit for security," she said and pulled the wad of cash from her pocket. She began pulling out bills and then laid $200 on the counter to cover the cost of a room for one night. Another $100 was put down beside it, and she slid it closer to the clerk. "We'd make a payment on our card, but it'd never post in time and I'd really love to sleep somewhere tonight that wasn't on a sidewalk." 

The clerk hesitated and stared at the row of bills. He looked from Tasha to Patterson and back to Tasha again. He tossed a glance over his shoulder and then collected the bills, tucking them away inside the pocket of his uniform's vest before setting to work at the computer. After a few quick keystrokes he disappeared into a back office, and Tasha and Patterson exchanged nervous looks. 

"I acted cool," Patterson whispered to Tasha. "This is all on you with your ridiculous story and piles of cash and what was that with your...?" She mimicked Tasha's hair tuck and wandering hand

"Shhhhh!" Tasha whispered back. 

The clerk reappeared and slid a white plastic card across the desk to Tasha. 

"Room 316. It's on the third floor," he said. "I'll just need to see ID for one of you and it's all yours." 

Patterson nodded, silently encouraging Tasha to use her fake passport. Whether the Latina noticed the subtle movement, she didn't know. Tasha was already pulling her passport from her pocket and handing it to the clerk. 

"Does my passport work?" 

"Perfectly, Ms. Johnson," came the prompt reply as the clerk tapped away at the computer again. "And you're all set. Check out is at 11 a.m. and there's coffee and bagels in the lobby starting at 6 a.m. I hope you and your wife enjoy your stay." 

Tasha's smile faltered for a brief moment when the clerk called Patterson her wife, but then took the keycard with a smile. 

"Thank you." 

She turned back to Patterson and showed her the keycard, triumphant smile on her face, and then headed towards the elevator. The scientist began to follow but turned back at the sound of the clerk clearing his throat. 

"It's none of my business," he began quietly to Patterson when Tasha was out of earshot, "but does your wife need a doctor? She looks pretty hurt." 

Patterson's heart raced at the idea that someone thought Tasha was her wife and she had to fight a giant grin from breaking out on her face. 

"She'll be okay," Patterson said. "We were hiking a few days ago and she took a fall. Nothing serious." 

The clerk considered this for a moment and then reached under the counter once again. He retrieved a small white bottle and pressed it into Patterson's hand. 

"Aspirin," he explained. "Just in case. I don't know what you're running from —" 

"We're not running," Patterson replied quickly, trying to hand the aspirin back. 

"Oh, please," the clerk said. "You have no credit card and no luggage. It looks like your wife was beaten pretty badly." 

"We—" 

The clerk held up a hand. 

"It's not my business. Take the aspirin," he said. "Have a good night. It's okay. Whoever you're running from, you're safe here." 

Patterson closed her hand around the bottle and gave the clerk an appreciative nod. She'd been afraid he hadn't bought Tasha's story, and she was right. But for the first time since Iceland, Patterson was grateful for Tasha's injuries. The clerk hadn't bought her story, but he'd taken a look at her limp and injured right arm and assumed they were running from someone. And in a way, they were. She thanked the clerk and hurried to join Tasha at the elevator. 

"What was that about?" Tasha asked, worry creasing her brow. 

Patterson held up the bottle of aspirin and smiled. 

"He thought my _wife_ might need some aspirin for her limp," she said, stepping inside the elevator as the doors opened. She thumbed the button for the third floor. "Are you coming, honey?" 

Tasha frowned at her as she boarded the elevator. Patterson snickered. 

"Aww, don't look so grumpy, Rebecca," she said using the agent's fake name. "Just remember, it's 'til death do we part."


	13. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know most of you are here for Patterson and Tasha, but I can't drop a story line no matter how hard I try. It's a quick one. Most of these non-Patterson/non-Zapata chapters will be short. I'm not super interested in writing them in all honesty. For those of you pissed off about actual events in the current season, I promise not to kill off any main cast (even though I may secretly – okay, not so secretly - want to). 
> 
> And I should have said this many chapters ago, but if you haven't watched the new season, this fic is loaded with spoilers.

The contents of several Walmart shopping bags were spread out on the motel room's beds. It was an assortment of toiletries, snacks, burner phones, prepaid debit cards, and clothes. Hopefully, enough supplies to get them through at least a week. Weller was brushing his teeth for the first time in what felt like days while Reade began carefully packing their new acquisitions into the two large backpacks they'd found in the store's camping section. He shoved Weller's collection of convenience store snacks into a small outside pocket of one of the bags and zipped the compartment closed, doing a quick visual survey of the items left behind. 

"We almost ready to go?" Weller asked, mouth full of toothpaste. 

Reade shook his head and pointed back to the sink. 

"That's gross, Kurt," he said. "Didn't your mother tell you not to talk with your mouth full? Spit that shit out first." 

"Sorry, mom," Weller replied, rinsing his new toothbrush off and slipping it inside a cheap one-dollar case. "So, we all packed up?" 

Reade waved a hand at the remaining pile of clothing and toiletries by way of response. 

"Almost, but it'd go a lot quicker with some help," he said. "You come up with a plan for finding Patterson?" 

Weller grabbed a pair of cheap blue jeans and laid it out flat on the bed before grabbing a t-shirt and laying it on top of the jeans. He rolled them tightly together and shoved the duo into the bottom of his backpack. 

"Bill said he brought them to the Sandstorm complex in Putnam County," he said. "Unless we grab a plane, it's either 21 hours by train or 22 hours by bus. Take your pick." 

Reade dropped heavily onto the bed causing the bag he'd been packing to nearly bounce off. He grabbed for it and set it on the floor at his feet. 

"We know they didn't stay there," he said after a pause. "Any idea where they might have been going?" 

Weller stowed the last of his purchases inside his backpack and zipped it closed. He hefted it to the floor and sat down. 

"Patterson's gonna wanna try to track down Kathy," he said. "Last we knew Kathy was in Boston." 

Reade didn't reply but considered his words carefully. They needed to regroup, that much was obvious, but their resources were finite. The money they'd carried with them to Iceland was dwindling. There had been the initial split with Jane but also airfare, the motel, and then their small supply shopping sprees. It would only be a matter of time before they ran out of the funds needed to travel all over the country playing a giant game of Marco Polo. Regrouping was important, and Reade understood that Kurt was anxious to find his wife. Reade was looking forward to finding Tasha. Once he'd come to in the tunnel beneath the smuggler's shack and realized she wasn't there with him, his heart had sunk. He would find her if it was the last thing he did. 

"Lemme ask you," he began and licked his lips. "You think if we go to New York or Boston we'll find them? You think Patterson, Tasha, Jane... you think they'll just be hanging around waiting for someone to find them?" 

"Do you have a better idea?" Kurt asked, turning his head to look at the director. 

"Rich." 

Weller raised an eyebrow. 

"Rich?" he repeated. 

Reade nodded solemnly. 

"Yeah. I mean, it's not like we have a lot of options here. Rich was at the office —" 

"And would have been the first person Madeline focused on when she realized we weren't in that shack after it she blew it up," Weller interrupted. "For all we know, she's got him at some black site trying to get information on where we are. I don't think Rich is an option. And neither is Weitz. If they're still at the NYO, we don't know and we can't be sure that they haven't been compromised." 

Reade got up from his spot on the bed and turned a slow circle, trying to get a grip on his racing thoughts. In one minute, Weller had shot down the best idea he'd had. And Weller was right. If they had anyone on their side left at the NYO, there was no telling if Madeline had gotten to them. Reaching out to Patterson's dad had been risky enough. Reaching out to Rich or Weitz would be worse. He shrugged and let his hands fall to his sides. 

"So what? What's the plan then, Kurt?" 

Weller didn't have a plan. Every time he started to put one together – grab a train and head towards Boston, grab a bus and head towards upstate New York – he was struck by at least a dozen reasons the plan was futile. Reade was right, they couldn't just take bus after bus and train after train all over the country to try to find the rest of the team. And maybe trying to reconnect with them was a bad idea. Or impossible. 

There was one thing, though. 

He hadn't mentioned it to Reade and he was certain neither Patterson nor Zapata knew about it, but after Jane ran from their home in Colorado a few years earlier, the couple had come up with a way to communicate in what Jane had called a "safe and secure" way. They'd never had to use it and, frankly, Weller wasn't entirely sure it would work or if Jane had checked in. 

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

"What?" Reade asked, sensing the other agent was holding something back. "What is it, Kurt?" 

Weller shook his head. 

"I dunno," he replied. "It might be nothing." 

"But it could be _something_," Reade prompted. 

"Yeah," Weller agreed. "It could be something." He hesitated. "After Jane took off from Colorado and the mess in Venezuela and Roman and the ZIP poisoning, Jane and I came up with a system. Should something happen again, we'd be able to reach out to the other without raising suspicions and staying under the radar. We've never used it. I don't even know if Jane has checked in, but it might be something." 

Reade furrowed his brow and tried to wrap his head around what the other man had just told him. They'd been running undercover for several days and Weller had never mentioned that he might have a way to communicate with the missing members of their team. This could be huge. Zapata and Patterson and Jane might be nearly 1,000 miles away, but if Weller and Jane could communicate while remaining undetected, it could be the break they needed. 

"So, what are we waiting for?" he asked after a minute. "Let's reach out and see if Jane answers." 

Weller absently turned one of the burner phones over and over in his hand. If they decided to try to check in, this would be the only time this phone would be able to be used. Every decision they made carried big implications. 

"Forget about the burner, Kurt," Reade said. "We'll get another if we need to, but if we can get in contact with Jane, Patterson, and Zapata, then we need to use it. That's why we've got the phones in the first place." 

Kurt didn't respond, instead holding down the phone's power button and waiting for its boot screen to appear. Once the phone was connected, his thumb hovered over the icon for the built-in browser. He glanced up at Reade who gave him a small encouraging nod. Weller tapped on the icon and then slowly entered in a long numerical IP address. After what felt like an eternity, the phone's browser connected to the site and he was met with a simple log-in prompt. He considered the username and password fields for a long moment and then entered in what, to Reade, looked like a random series of letters and numbers in each field before tapping on an "Okay" button. Several very long moments later the screen refreshed to display a plain white background. At the top of the screen was the image of an envelope with the number one appearing next to it. 

If it seemed like it was a long time waiting for the site to accept his username and password, it felt like an eternity for the message indicated by the envelope to load. Kurt had immediately tapped on the icon and was getting ready to tap it again when the page suddenly refreshed, unveiling a short paragraph of unstyled text on the page. 

There was no greeting, no familiar names anywhere on the page, but Reade and Weller both knew the message was from Jane. While Jane insisted this means of communication would be secure, she knew that there was a chance someone could stumble upon it. Unless they were face to face, there was no such thing as 100% safe and secure. Her message, while vague and seemingly nonsensical, relayed that fear, but it was enough for Weller to understand. 

_I met up with Jill and Sabrina unexpectedly. Everyone's okay. Sabrina was injured but Jill is taking care of her. I'm looking for Charlie. Jill and Sabrina are still on the case. Will report back soon. Stay safe._

Reade shook his head. 

"What the hell is she talking about?" he asked, reading the short message for a second time. 

"She's using the original _Charlie's Angels _as her key," Weller explained with a chuckled and then tried to explain. "Jane told me that when we first put her up in the safehouse after waking up in that bag, she had a hard time sleeping at night. The only thing on TV after midnight on the few TV channels she got was _Charlie's Angels._" 

"So? Who's Jill? Who's Sabrina?" Reade demanded. "And who is hurt? Are they not together anymore?" 

Weller read the message a second time and then tapped out his own brief reply. 

_I've got __Bosley__ with me and we're both okay. Working on a plan. Stay safe, Angels. We'll check in soon._

Once the screen refreshed, Jane's message was gone, leaving Weller's addition in its place. He powered off the phone and tossed it onto the bed. When they finally left the motel, he'd make a point to toss it down a sewer grate or into a dumpster. 

"What the hell, Kurt? Why am I Bosley in this fucked message?" 

Kurt shrugged. 

"There weren't a lot of guys in that show," he replied as if that was enough of an explanation. Weller got off the bed and stretched. "And, to answer your questions, Jill was blonde in the original series, so my best guess is that's Patterson which means —" 

"Tasha's hurt," Reade interrupted. He felt his stomach drop down to his feet. He'd been worried enough at the idea of not knowing where everyone was but knowing that Tasha had been injured made him sick. There were at least 700 miles between them and who knows how far they'd gotten after Jane split up from them. All Reade wanted to do in that moment was get to Tasha. "Why did they split up?" 

Weller shook his head. He'd been wondering the same thing. 

"I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe it's easier for them to move in a smaller group? Jane is pretty distinctive looking. Maybe they thought it was best to split up but if Tasha's hurt, she might not have been able to travel alone. Patterson and Tasha... they're closer than Tasha and Jane. I don't know." 

"We should try to get to them," Reade said. "If Zapata's been hurt —" 

"She's got Patterson," Weller said. "She'll be fine. If she wasn't fine, Jane would have said something. We'll never get to them before they move on, so we have to move on." 

Reade considered this for a moment. He didn't like it. It went against everything his body was telling him to do, but Weller was right. They'd never make it halfway across the country and find the rest of their team before they'd moved on to whatever their next destination was. 

"So, back to the original question then," he said reluctantly. "Now what?" 

Weller thought back on Jane's message. She said she was on her way to find Charlie. There were only a few people who he could think of that might fit the moniker. 

"I think Jane is going back to the city," he said. "She's either going for Weitz or Rich. Either way, she's about to head into the belly of the beast. Alone." 


End file.
